


Water in the Desert

by twilights_blue



Series: The Lost Element [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Character Death, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Slow Build, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 86,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilights_blue/pseuds/twilights_blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the request of an old friend of their teacher, Sam and Dean Winchester leave their home in the plains and enter the Great Desert, a vast, barren wasteland that is being torn apart by inexplicable drought. And as the days go on and they learn more and more about this strange land and its legends, the brothers discover that what they thought was a simple hunt is actually as deep and dark as the bottom of a long-forgotten well.</p>
<p>[Complete!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The desert. A wayhouse. A dream.

The wide plains stretched out for what seemed like forever, a landlocked sea of green. Dean paused his horse for a moment to look out at the plains from his tall vantage point, wanting to absorb the sight before the sun sank completely behind the mountains at his back. He didn’t know when he’d see this again.

“C’mon Dean,” Sam said, a little further up the slope. “I want to reach the peak before we lose the light.”

Dean grunted, tearing his gaze away from the east to look up at his brother. “Liar,” he said, with no real bite in the accusation. “You just wanna see what’s on the other side.”

Sam shrugged, not saying anything, though his boyish grin and the way he eagerly urged his horse onward spoke volumes. Dean followed his brother, but at a much slower pace, his horse delicately picking her way along the uneven path. It had been years since this road was in common use, and the weather and neglect had taken its toll.

For the last five hundred yards or so, the scrubland that clung to the mountainsides faded, first thinning, and then disappearing entirely for the final handful of yards. The exposed ground was pale and dry, with a red-brown shade. When Sam reached the top of the pass ahead of Dean, he reined up to a halt. Shading his eyes from the dying sunlight, he let out a low whistle. Dean, drawing even with Sam, also stopped to look.

The road coming out of the mountains was a series of switchbacks, the slope too sharp for the straight path like the one that adorned the eastern face. Once it reached the root of the mountains it pushed westward for a bit before curving northward, arrow-straight along the land’s edge until it ranged out of sight. The land itself was flat and featureless, all dirt and dust and rock. The sunset stained everything red, an endless field of fire.

The Great Desert certainly lived up to its name.

“It’s beautiful,” Sam said, awe softening his voice. “I mean, it’s a little spooky, but it’s still beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, noncommittal. He turned away from the view before them. “Let’s set up camp, yeah? I’m not getting on that road in the dark.”

Sam was slow to dismount and help, his gaze drifting towards the desert time and again. It was Sam’s first time being over the mountains, and Dean both did and didn’t understand his fascination. Their father had sent him up here years ago, as part of his training regimen. Dean had reached the peak at dusk and camped there, just as they did now. After a night of restless sleep, Dean broke camp at first light and headed home, not even sparing a glance for the desert he left behind. It was as flat and endless as the plains he grew up in, but the sheer _emptiness_ , the lack of easy life and greenery, unnerved Dean. It felt like he could lose himself in it, if he wasn’t careful.

But a job was a job, and if that meant facing that barren land, then Dean would do it.

After they settled into camp, they had a quick dinner. The sun set as they ate, and the night was near-black, save for their small campfire and the scattering of stars above them. As Sam put away the remains of their meal, Dean said, “I’ll take first watch.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “Do you really think watches are necessary up here?”

Dean shrugged. “We don’t know what likes to wander the pass at night,” he said, idly fingering the hilt of his sword. He looked westward as he spoke.

Sam didn’t argue any further, settling into his bedroll with a shrug and a quiet “good night.” Within minutes he was snoring.

Dean watched Sam for a moment before looking away, crouching down on his haunches and stirring up the embers of their fire. After it was sufficiently rekindled, Dean sat down properly and leaned against the rock face behind him, watching the stars slowly wheel above him. As he named all the constellations that he knew, Dean tried to ignore the curl of unease that the desert’s empty blackness sparked in his chest.

=

Dean woke Sam a little while after midnight and slept away the last handful of hours before dawn. His dreams were unsettling, full of light and a voice, loud and painful and incomprehensible. When Sam shook him awake at first light, Dean didn’t feel like he slept at all.

They were packed in a matter of moments and were winding their way down the mountain before the sun fully cleared the horizon. This section of road, while untouched by the rain that often lashed at the eastern side of the pass, was still in great disrepair. The morning passed mostly in silence, both Sam and Dean focused on navigating the steep slope without tripping their horses. They ate lunch in the saddle, not wanting to lose even more time to their slow progress. Neither brother wanted to spend another night in the mountains.

As they descended, the switchbacks became less severe, the ride easier. The air became hot and dry, the heat pressing down on them and also radiating upwards from the sun-baked ground. By the time they finally reached the desert floor, both Sam and Dean had taken off their dusters.

“I read that deserts were hot,” Sam said, wiping the sweat off his face with his bandanna, “but this is much worse than I imagined.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Makes me wonder how folk actually live in this pit.”

The glare Sam leveled at him was expected, and Dean easily shrugged it off. With an annoyed huff of a sigh, Sam reached into one of his saddlebags and pulled out his map. The parchment was yellowed and frayed, and Sam unrolled it with gentle fingers.

“According to this, there should be a wayhouse around where the road turns north,” Sam said. “Of course, this was drawn a few decades ago, so I can’t tell you if it’s still there, but…”

“If it’s abandoned, we’ll just camp there,” Dean said, finishing Sam’s thought. “A roof over our heads will be better than camping in the open.”

Sam nodded. “And there might still be water around.”

“Right.” Dean clicked his tongue, urging his horse into a trot. “Let’s go. Daylight’s going.”

=

The wayhouse showed up on the horizon an hour or so later, a brown smudge against the cloudless sky. From that distance, it was impossible to tell its condition, but as they approached and the sun began to set, they saw the spark of lantern light. Encouraged, Dean and Sam picked up their pace, eating up the last couple of miles before the sun completely disappeared.

The wayhouse had no sign, or any posted name, but both the long, low house and the stable next to it were in good repair, and a lantern burnt brightly beside the house’s door. As Sam and Dean dismounted in the open yard, the wayhouse’s door swung open and a woman stepped out to meet them.

“Well look at this,” she said. Her smile was warm, but her eyes were wary. “Five years since he last had travelers, and now we get two at once. Welcome, strangers.”

“Thank you,” Sam said. “We were hoping to stay here tonight, if that’s not too much trouble.”

“Of course it ain’t trouble. That’s what the Roadhouse is here for.” The woman flicked a calculating glance over both Sam and Dean, her gaze lingering at the weapons they wore. Dean’s were on his hips, one blade and one gun, and Sam’s sword was strapped against his back. Her mouth tightened, but she still turned back to the house and beckoned them. “C’mon in. Jo’ll make sure your horses are settled right quick.”

Sam followed immediately, but Dean lingered, grip tightening on his mare’s reins. He was protective of his horse and didn’t like anyone else tending to her. But they were guests here, and Dean was pretty sure that insisting on caring for his own horse would be considered rude. Dean didn’t want to insult the woman; she looked like she had some steel in her, despite the warm enough welcome.

Sam noticed Dean’s absence quickly enough, and stopped to look back at him. “Coming,” he asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Yeah, ‘course.”

Before he went, though, he patted his mare one more time. “Don’t worry, Baby,” he murmured. “They do anything to you, I’ll make sure they pay.” Baby nickered, lipped Dean’s hand, and with that reassurance Dean trotted to catch up with Sam.

The front room of the Roadhouse was large and open, with a well-stocked bar tucked against one wall and tables and chairs scattered everywhere else. Everything looked well tended to, but there was still a feel of disuse, of too few people occupying too large of a space.

“Guess she wasn’t kidding about the five years thing,” Dean said, nudging a nearby chair with his foot. The seat was covered in a thin layer of dust.

“When trade dried up, we dried up.”

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t realized that their host was still standing next to the entryway. He could feel his face heating up as he fumbled for words. “I, well. Y’see--”

“Make yourself comfortable, boy,” the woman said. “I still need to get Jo for your horses.”

Dean nodded dumbly, and the woman left them without another word, opening a door located at the back of the main room and yelling for Jo. As soon as the door closed behind her, Sam elbowed Dean in the ribs.

“Hey!”

“Good going,” Sam said. “We’ll be lucky if she doesn’t make us sleep in the stable.”

Dean grimaced and rubbed at his abused ribs. “Don’t worry,” he said. “She seems to like you, so I think it’s just me bunking with the horses tonight.”

“Nah,” said a voice to their left. “Y’all are both safe.”

Sam and Dean turned to look at the bar, which still appeared to be empty. After a moment a man popped up from behind the bar, a half empty bottle of whisky in his hand.

“Takes more than a couple of hard truths to piss off Ellen,” the man continued. He took a swig from the bottle. “I think she likes you both, actually.”

Dean snorted. “If that’s how she is when she likes someone, I don’t want to see her pissed off.”

“She’ll tear you apart without needing to catch her breath after,” the man said, expression sincere. He grinned a moment later and held out his hand. “Name’s Ash, by the way.”

“Dean Winchester,” he said, and approached the bar to shake Ash’s hand. “And this here’s my brother Sam.”

Ash looked over Dean’s shoulder at Sam, and held out his hand again. Sam stared at Ash’s hand like it was a snake coiled and ready to strike at him. Ash raised his eyebrows after a second, and Dean had to nudge Sam before he finally reached out and took the proffered hand. He dropped it after a single shake.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Sam said, sounding more than a little awkward.

Ash flexed his hand, working his fingers like they had gone numb. He was still smiling, but his shoulders had gone tense. “Right back atcha,” he said.

Dean opened his mouth to say something - he wasn’t sure what, just something to get rid of the tension that was hanging over the three of them - when Ellen returned. A young, blonde slip of a girl trailed behind her.

“This is my daughter, Jo,” Ellen said. “She’s young, but she knows her way around horses. She’ll get your horses settled in and your bags inside before you can blink.”

Both brothers tensed. “Ah,” Sam said. “We can get our own--”

Jo scoffed. “I can handle a couple of saddlebags,” she said. “I ain’t made of glass.” And before Sam could say anything else, she stepped outside.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Sam said, his face pinched with faint distress.

“Jo’s used to people underestimating her,” Ellen said. “Don’t worry, she’ll come round soon enough.”

“Miss Ellen?” Ash said. His eyes flicked over to Sam and Dean before he said, “We should probably talk about room arrangements.”

“Right. ‘Scuze me, boys.”

Ellen and Ash moved to the far end of the bar, and began speaking in low voices. Sam turned to Dean the moment they started talking.

“This is bad,” Sam said.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” Dean asked, the tension running through him clipping his words short. “The stuff in our saddlebags--”

“Not just that,” Sam said. “Ash is… he’s got magic. Not anything too big, but when he touched me…”

“He could tell you did, too,” Dean said. He swiped a hand across his mouth. “Shit. Okay. Let’s get out of here before--”

“So,” Ellen said, breaking into Dean’s rushed whispering. “What’s brought the two of you out our way?”

The smile Dean gave her was strained, but it was the best he could offer under the circumstances. “Oh, y’know,” he said. “Just traveling, seeing the sights.”

Ellen hummed, perching on one of the stools lined up against the bar. It didn’t escape Dean’s notice that Ash still lingered at the other end of the bar, wiping nervously at the bartop and sneaking glances at the three of them. He heard Sam fidgeting behind him, but didn’t want to tell him to relax. It felt too risky.

“Traveling,” Ellen repeated, tapping her fingers on the bartop. “Not business?”

“No, ma’am,” Dean said.

“That so,” Ellen said. “Been a long time since a couple of monster hunters have wandered out of the east and into our desert, so I figured it was something important.”

Dean didn’t have to turn around to know that Sam had gone still behind him. Dean didn’t blame him, because he was struggling not to bolt, himself. Hunters, while not unheard of, tried to stay as inconspicuous as possible. For Ellen and her crew to pick them out so quickly either meant that they hunted themselves, or were nowhere near human.

“What makes you think we’re hunters?” Sam asked, after too long of a pause. “All that we said was that we were traveling.”

“With both blades and guns?” Ellen nodded at their weapons.

“We like to be well prepared,” Dean said. He had to resist resting a hand on the pommel of his broadsword.

“And the silver slugs?”

Dean hadn’t heard Jo come back inside. She had both Sam and Dean’s saddlebags hanging over her shoulder, and her face was grim. She crossed the room and tossed a box to Ellen. They did indeed contain silver bullets--they were from Sam’s bags. Worse, the hunter’s sigil, a star ringed with flame, was emblazoned on the box’s lid.

Ellen pulled out one of the slugs, flipped it between her fingers, and put it and the box on the bar. “Game’s over, boys,” she said. Her voice had gained an edge. “Explain yourselves.”

And now Dean’s hand was definitely on his sword, grip white-knuckled. Sam, though, gently touched his shoulder, a silent caution for him to wait. “Look,” Sam said to Ellen, “we don’t want any trouble.”

“And we don’t want to give it,” Ellen said. “But when two hunters come in from the plains, hiding what they are, and one of them can use magic, I think I have the right to ask questions.”

“Then answer one of ours first,” Dean snapped. “Are you hunters, too, or a pack of monsters?”

“That ain’t your business,” Jo said. “You’re the ones in the wrong here, not us.”

“Joanna Beth,” Ellen said sternly. Jo whirled on her, protesting, but the look her mother gave her made her hold her tongue. Jo subsided, and Ellen turned her attention back to Dean and Sam.

“We’re human,” Ellen said. “Hunters of a sort. We specialize in information more than we do in killing.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Like Bobby,” he said.

Ellen looked just as surprised as Sam. “You know Bobby Singer?”

 

“He’s the one who sent us out here,” Dean said. “If I’d known he was sending us to folk like you, I would’ve argued a little harder.”

Ellen laughed, and just like that, the tension leaked out of the room. “It probably never occurred to him to warn you two, knowing him,” she said. She gestured to the barstools next to her. “C’mon, sit. If Bobby trusts you, then that’s good enough for me.”

Dean, surprised at how quickly the fight had left Ellen, glanced over at Sam, who could only offer him a shrug. After a moment’s thought, Dean moved to sit next to Ellen. Sam settled on Dean’s other side at the same time Jo sat next to Ellen. Ash finally returned from his safe spot at the other end of the bar and started digging out glasses.

“Sorry ‘bout all of that,” Ellen said as Ash line up five glasses and started pouring everyone fingers of whisky. “Like I said, travel’s slowed down a lot, so when we suddenly get visitors - and hunters, on top of all that - it makes us wary.”

“We need to make sure you’re safe for,” Jo started, but at the look Ellen gave her, she hesitated before finally finishing with, “for the desert.”

“S’fine,” Dean said. “We’ve had worse welcomes before, believe me.”

“I’ll believe that,” Ellen said. She took a glass from Ash, toasted Sam and Dean, and knocked back the whisky in a single swallow. Dean, smiling a little, followed Ellen’s lead, as did Ash and Jo. Sam, however, was content with sipping his own drink, though he did raise an eyebrow at everyone else’s enthusiasm.

“So,” Ellen said, once everyone’s drinks were refilled. “Why’d Bobby send you out to our part of the world, anyhow?”

“He got a letter from a friend,” Sam said. He rifled through his pockets and pulled out a battered envelope. “Do you know Rufus?”

“Oh yeah,” Ellen said. “Rufus Turner’s a mostly retired hunter, and crazier than a bag of cats.”

Ash scowled. “I like him,” he said.

“No offense, Ash,” Jo said, “but that ain’t exactly a good thing. You’re only a little less crazy.”

Ash shrugged. “Yeah, well.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said, “Bobby read the letter once and sent us out here to check it out.”

“It doesn’t even say much,” Dean said. “Just that Bobby should haul ass out here. He can’t ride much anymore, so he sent us instead.”

Ellen took the letter when Sam slid it down the bar. She kept her face impassive as she read, but Dean saw the way her mouth tightened. Whatever wasn’t being said, both in the letter and on Ellen’s face, couldn’t be good.

“I guess you’ll have to ask Rufus himself about what’s going on,” she said. “But until then… Ash?”

The man in question straightened himself up, cutting off his easy bickering with Jo. “Ma’am?”

“Could you go get the book? You know the one.”

“Yes’m.” Ash dug out a candle from behind the bar and lit it with a snap of his fingers. Thus equipped, he disappeared into the back of the house.

“Fire magic, huh?” Dean said.

“It thrives out here,” Ellen said, “with the heat and the dry. Water magic is as rare as fire is common.”

“Can either of you use magic?” Jo asked, leaning forward eagerly. “Ash was acting twitchier than usual, so I figured one of you was making him nervous.”

“Dean’s never had the knack,” Sam said, grinning at the mock-glare Dean threw his way. “As for me, well, let’s just say I can do a little bit of everything.”

Jo looked like Sam only piqued her interest with that, and she opened her mouth to ask something else when Ash returned. “Every time I have to go in that storage room for something,” he said, grumbling, “I briefly consider burning everything.”

“And I’m always glad that you never have,” Ellen said, her smile barely curving her mouth. “Did you find it?”

“Yeah,” Ash moved back behind the bar and dropped the book in front of Dean. Going back to his whisky, Ash said, “Take care of it, yeah? It’s as old as the desert.”

Dean pulled the book towards him, and Sam leaned over his shoulder to get a look as well. It was a thick tome, bound in leather that had softened over the course of years. There was no title on the front cover, but there was a metal sigil of what appeared to be a crested serpent eating its own tail affixed to the leather. Dean thought it was once silver, but age had tarnished it a dull black.

“What is it?” Dean asked, lightly touching the little serpent’s head.

“The desert has a different set of folklore than the plains,” Ellen said. “If you’re gonna be wandering all over the place, you might as well get yourselves educated.”

“So they’re children’s tales,” Dean said.

Ellen lightly smacked his arm. “You should know by now that even children’s tales can have a grain of truth to them, especially when it comes to monsters and magic.”

Dean couldn’t really argue against that. Still, he pushed the book towards Sam, who eagerly grabbed it. “He’s the scholar out of the two of us,” Dean told Ellen.

Sure enough, Sam had already cracked open the book and was settling down to read. Ellen’s amusement was nearly palpable. “Well, don’t let him stay up too late,” she said. “You boys won’t get too far tomorrow if he’s falling asleep in the saddle.”

“You’ll need to get up early, too,” Jo said. “I can show you your room if you wanna turn in soon.”

“I’d be much obliged,” Dean said, offering Jo a smile. She returned it before sliding off her barstool and heading for the back. Dean moved to follow her and clapped his brother on the shoulder to urge him to get moving. Sam grumbled, but willingly followed.

Jo led them through the door in the back and down a dark, narrow hall. She stopped at a door about halfway down and pushed it open, revealing two narrow beds. After sliding Sam and Dean’s bags off her shoulder and leaving a candle on the windowsill, Jo bade them good night and disappeared back down the hall. Once she was out of sight, Dean flopped onto his bed with a sigh.

“Well that was more excitement than I was expecting for our first day here,” Dean said as he pulled off his boots.

Sam grunted in reply, his nose already back in the book Ellen gave them. Rolling his eyes, Dean left the candle burning near Sam’s bed and rolled over to face the wall. Knowing his brother, Sam would be up all night finishing that book. Dean, on the other hand, was more than ready for bed. Yanking the blankets over himself, Dean ignored Sam’s continued reading and slowly drifted off.

=

When Jo hammered at their door to wake them up the next day, the world outside was still dark. Dean was slow to dress, an inexplicable headache beating against his temples. Sam didn’t seem to be faring any better, squinting against the candlelight and only looking half awake.

“Don’t tell me you were up all night,” Dean said as he slung his saddlebags over his shoulder.

“No,” Sam said around a yawn. “Just half.”

“Okay, well, if you fall off that horse today, you’re on your own.”

Sam thumped his own bags against Dean’s side, making Dean stagger. “I’m not twelve anymore,” he said. “I won’t fall. Besides, if they have coffee, I’ll be set.”

They didn’t have coffee, but when Dean and Sam entered the Roadhouse’s main room, they were greeted by the smell of bacon and eggs. It turned out that Ash was an amazing cook, and both brothers had three portions each before being unable to eat anymore.

“Don’t get too comfy,” Ash said with a slanted smile as he cleaned off the bar. “The ladies are outside waiting for you.”

Dean groaned a little and pushed away from the bar, Sam following suit. “Thanks,” he told Ash.

“Don’t mention it,” Ash said, clapping Dean on the shoulder. “We’ll see you on your way back out, yeah?”

“‘Course,” Dean said. With a final salute, he and Sam walked out of the Roadhouse and into the predawn.

Their horses were waiting for them, already saddled, Jo holding onto the reins. Ellen stood beside Jo, a large earthen cup in her hands. The way she held herself had an air of ceremony to it, Dean noticed.

“What’s all this?” Dean asked as he attached his saddlebags to Baby. “A goodbye party?

“Of a sort,” Ellen said, with a faint smile. “Tradition here is to bless a traveler’s first drink of water. That way, the rest of your journey can continue without any misfortune.”

Dean grunted, finishing the last tie on Baby’s saddle. He never was one for traditions or superstitions. He was about to say as much, but Jo’s scowl and Sam’s warning glare stopped the words before they even left his mouth. With a quiet sigh, he said, “Sure, why not?” and stepped closer to Ellen.

Sam got handed the cup first, and he inspected the looping, almost wave-like lines carved into its side before taking a long drink. As he passed it to Dean, Ellen intoned, “May the Creator and her children watch over you, and safely see you to your journey’s end.”

Dean raised his eyebrow but didn’t say anything as he tipped the cup back to finish what was left of the water. When the liquid touched his tongue, though, he had to wonder if it _was_ water. It was certainly clear and scentless, but it tasted light and refreshing, flavored with herbs he couldn’t name. It warmed him to his core and cleared his headache almost immediately. It was the most amazing drink Dean ever had, leaving him oddly both satisfied and wanting more once the cup was empty.

“Thank you,” he said as he gave the cup back to Ellen. “Did you put anything in it? That was, man, it was good.”

Amused, Ellen shook her head. “It was just water from our supplies,” she said, “nothing more.”

“What?” Dean blinked, confused, and looked at Sam. “But--”

“Mine just tasted like water, Dean,” Sam said, brows furrowed in a small frown. “A little earthy, but just water.”

Dean realized he was gaping at Sam, and closed his mouth with a snap. “Well,” he said, turning to take reins from Jo, “that was some good water, then.”

“Thank you,” Ellen said. “You boys be safe. I expect you to stop by on your way back.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ellen gave them both one last smile before going back inside. Dean expected Jo to follow, but she stayed put, even after Sam took his horse’s reins from her. She was watching Dean expectantly.

“Something on your mind?” Dean asked, pointedly not looking while Sam climbed into the saddle. With Sam’s long legs, there was never a time where his getting on or off a horse wasn’t painful to watch.

Jo flicked her hair back from her face and hooked her thumbs into her belt, the picture of innocence. “I know why your water tasted different,” she said.

“Really?” Dean asked. Sam, now settled atop his horse, leaned forward, curious as well.

“Well,” Jo said, with a shrug, “it’s said that those whose water gains flavor during the ceremony is favored by the desert.”

Dean frowned a little. “How can a desert have a preference?”

Jo shrugged again. “It’s an old belief,” she said. “If anything, that should mean your business here will go well, yeah?”

Still frowning, Dean hooked his boot into one of Baby’s stirrups and mounted up. This place kept getting weirder and weirder, and seemed to be bent on proving he was right to distrust it. “Well,” he said, shaking his head a little. “That’s good to know, I guess.”

“Trust me, having the desert’s favor is sure to work to your advantage,” Jo said. “Anyway, y’all got a map?”

Sam patted his coat pocket. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Turning westward, Jo pointed at the road that pointed northward, which looked dusty pale in the darkness. “That road will get you to town. It’ll turn west again in a day or two. There should be camping spots along the way. Nothing as fancy as us, but they’ll have water. Just keep an eye on the markers and you’ll do fine.”

Sam nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “All of you have been great help.”

“You seem like decent folk,” Jo said. Then she grinned. “Besides, I could take the both of you, if push comes to shove.”

Dean laughed and kicked Baby into a trot, Sam following a beat later. As the road curved to the north, Dean turned in his saddle and lifted his hand to Jo in a farewell. Jo returned it right before Dean’s horse took her out of sight. With a sigh, Dean dropped his hand and faced forward again.

“They were an interesting group,” Sam said. “I don’t think I want to get on any of their bad sides, though.”

Dean silently agreed. “What did Ellen mean,” he asked, “when she said the Creator and her children? You noticed that, right?”

“I did,” Sam said. He looked just as confused as Dean felt. The Creator was common lore across all the lands, and she was believed to be the great being who had breathed life into the world. Her having children, though, was something neither Sam nor Dean had heard before. Sam was clearly thinking it through now, tapping his fingers against his saddlehorn. Dean left him to it, knowing Sam would share whatever conclusion he reached whenever he reached.

“Maybe,” Sam said, after a few minutes of silent riding, “she meant us. Like people and animals and plants. If the Creator made us, then we’re technically her children, right?”

“I guess,” Dean said. It didn’t sound like the right answer to him, but it was the only one he had right now.

“Or it could be local lore,” Sam said. He had tucked the book Ellen gave them into one of his saddlebags, and he fiddled with that bag’s ties as he spoke. “I haven’t finished the stories, so it’s possible.”

That sounded closer on being right, though Dean couldn’t say why. Instead, he shrugged and gave Sam a pointed look. “Don’t even think of reading while we ride,” he said. “Like I said--”

“I’m on my own if I fall,” Sam said. “I _know_.”

“Damn straight.”

Sam snorted and they fell into companionable silence. The mountains to their right slowly brightened as the minutes passed, the rising sun touching their peaks with pale light. It was cool and dark in the desert still, but Dean knew that it would quickly grow hot once the sun cleared the mountains.

“What was it like?” Sam asked, startling Dean out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“When you drank the water,” Sam said. “What did it taste like?”

Dean meant to be honest, but as he went to speak, something deep inside him let out a faint protest. So instead he found himself shrugging and saying, “It was just my imagination, Sammy. All it tasted like was plain ol’ water.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”

Dean tried to make himself look as innocent as possible under his brother’s critical gaze. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t start with the bullshit,” Sam said. “I saw your face when you finished drinking. Whatever you tasted wasn’t ‘plain ol’ water.’”

So much for trying to fool his own brother. With a grimace, Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. “I can’t really describe it,” he muttered. “But I guess the closest thing I can say is that it tasted like, like…”

“Like what?” Sam said, after Dean trailed off for too long.

Dean cleared his throat and looked away. The sun had finally peeked over the mountains as they talked, turning the desert a dull red-brown. Dean watched the color return the world for a moment before speaking again.

“Home, Sam. It tasted like home.”

=

They didn’t talk after that, concentrating more on taking advantage of the lingering morning chill to make some real progress on the road. By the time the sun completely cleared the mountains, the desert heat had forced them to slow to a walk. It wouldn’t do either of them good to kill their horses by pushing them too hard.

The hours passed, the land around them unchanging and flat. Once, Dean thought he saw a cart further up the road, but it soon disappeared in the shimmering air that hovered just above the horizon. They were alone on the road, and it was easy to believe they were the only living things out in that vast nothing of a desert.

Sam’s map didn’t indicate any of the waypoints between the Roadhouse and the first town, but markers appeared along the side of the road a little past midday. They were simple stakes planted in the ground, each as tall as a horse’s shoulder and set a half mile apart from one another. Arrows painted on them, faint but still noticeable, indicated the way onward. For the rest of the afternoon, the markers urged them forward, but as night began to sweep over the desert, the sun barely still above the western horizon, one marker pointed to the right, directing them off the main road and onto a narrower path. They followed it, eager to reach the waypoint before they lost the light entirely.

The waypoint was little more than a marked off patch of ground. There was a water pump, a dry trough, and a ring of stones marking a fire pit. There wasn’t a building in sight.

“Homey,” Dean said as he slid off Baby’s back.

Sam snorted and took up Baby’s reins. “At least there’s water,” he said as he led the horses to the trough.

He had a point. Over the course of the day, they’d gone through a considerable amount of the water Ellen provided them. The horses in particular had drained their supply whenever they’d stopped to rest. Dean had been worried they wouldn’t reach the waypoint in time tonight, and would have to wait until tomorrow for more water. He couldn’t help but be thankful that he’d been wrong.

As Sam worked to fill the trough and water the horses, Dean set up the rest of the camp. There was a cache of kindling stored nearby, and the dry wood caught easily under Dean’s attentions. By the time Sam wandered over, Dean was done cooking their dinner. They chatted idly as they ate, and Dean cleaned everything up afterward. Sam, predictably, offered to take first watch, his book already open on his lap. Dean, drained by the long day and oppressive desert heat, didn’t argue. He was asleep before his head hit his bedroll.

=

He dreamed.

He stood in the dark emptiness of the desert. Not even the stars were visible. Knee-high grass, like that of the plains, whispered against his jeans as he looked around. There was nothing out there.

And then there was light.

Brilliant light, blinding light, blue-white light that hurt to look at . He stumbled back with a small cry, flinging up one arm in a weak attempt to shield his eyes. He felt like he’d go blind soon, under all of this brilliance. He was sure the light would burn his eyes out.

A sound joined the light, high pitched and ringing at the very edges of his hearing. It was too much of an assault to bear. He fell to his knees, hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut. He found himself asking out loud, _begging_ , for whatever this was to stop.

It didn’t. If anything, it got worse, the light pressing painfully against his eyelids, the noises getting louder. Through the chaotic pain, he found himself thinking that the sounds were words, great and terrible words. It was with this thought that the dream let him go, the light almost wrapping around him as it released him back into consciousness.

Dean woke, his screams echoing across the desert. Sam was immediately at his side, asking questions, but Dean couldn’t hear him. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and curled into himself, that terrible voice still echoing in his head like thunder, coalescing into two stark words.

_Help me._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting the dead. Another dream. A story. An omen.

Dean tilted his head back and let out a slow breath, praying to a deity he didn't really believe in for patience. When there was no response, he glared over at Sam. "Stop," he said.

Sam blinked at him. "Stop what?"

"The whole," Dean took one hand off Baby's reins to gesture at Sam, "the sympathetic face thing."

Instead of complying, Sam just furrowed his brow even more. "I don't know what you mean," he said.

"You know exactly what I mean," Dean said. "You've been doin' it since we headed out this morning."

After jolting awake from his dream, Dean had insisted on taking over the rest of Sam's watch. Sam had obeyed, despite his worries, but even then he only managed a few hours of sleep. The dream made Dean uneasy about staying still, and before he knew it he was rousing Sam and urging them to move on. Ever since then, Sam hadn't stopped sneaking worried glances at Dean, and there was only so much unnecessary concern Dean could take.

"You woke up screaming," Sam said pointedly. "I think I'm allowed to worry about you a little."

Dean snorted. "Ain't the first nightmare I've had," he said. "And it won't be my last, I'm sure."

The way Sam was frowning, Dean was sure his face was going to get stuck that way. "This one was different, though," he said.

Out of all the possible responses Sam could've made, Dean wasn't expecting that one. "What makes you say that?" he asked.

"Your nightmares don't usually make you scream," Sam said. His expression was a mixture of solemnity and worry. "Or break camp in the middle of the night."

Dean had nothing to say to that. He cleared his throat and looked northward, at the hazy air and seemingly endless road. Finally he said, "Why don't you finish reading that book Ellen gave us?"

By Sam's expression, it was as if Dean had told them to dump all of their water and food on the side of the road. "I thought you didn't like me reading in the saddle," he said.

"If it'll get you to shut up about me right now, then I'm all for it."

Sam snorted, but was already shifting to dig the book out of his saddlebags. "All right, all right, I'll let up."

"Thank you."

Silence fell between them, Sam busy reading and Dean keeping an eye out on the road ahead and behind. They had started riding hours before dawn, and by Dean's reckoning, they would reach the next waypoint before dusk. That sounded appealing to his exhausted mind, but at the same time Dean couldn't help but worry about what could be waiting for him once he fell asleep.

Because Sam was right: the dream last night was like nothing Dean had ever experienced. Usually, his nightmares were a flood of broken images, vivid but nowhere near comprehensive overall. Last night, though, felt like a full-on vision instead of a dream. And that voice, that terrifying roar that brought him to his knees and begged for his help at the same time. Dean had never dreamt of anything like that before. It had felt like a message, a real plea for aid, and Dean didn't know what to make of that.

He didn't know what to make of most of what had happened ever since he and Sam had stepped into this blasted desert. And Dean hated being so constantly unsure.

"Hey," Sam said, pulling Dean out of his thoughts. "See that?"

"See what?" Dean asked. He scanned the desert to their left and right for a moment, but Sam shook his head and nodded forward, further down the road. Dean saw it then: a glare of sunlight off of something, unsteady in the haze but decidedly there.

"Is it the next waypoint, do you think?" Sam asked.

Dean checked the sun's angle, trying to figure out how long they'd been riding. "Maybe," he said after a short while. "But if it's like the last one, then what's that shiny spot?"

Sam shrugged. "Other travelers?"

"Yeah. Best be careful. We don't know how these desert folk are about strangers."

"Right."

They kept at their easy pace, both brothers now scanning the road. As the miles passed, the glint sharpened, that uncertain flicker now almost completely steady. It almost looked like the roof of a building. Sure enough, the road markers soon guided them off the road once more.

"Here we go," Sam said, leading the way down the path towards the waypoint. "We can rest for a bit and then keep going when it gets closer to dusk."

Dean frowned at the back of Sam's head. "You think that's a good idea? We'll have to camp before the next waypoint, most likely."

Sam scoffed. "It'll be fine," he said. Just because _you_ have an irrational dislike of this place doesn't mean it's danger--"

This waypoint was surrounded by a low wall, and Sam rounded it as he spoke. Whatever was on the other side made the words die in his mouth, and he reined his horse to a sharp stop. He looked like someone had punched him the gut.

"What?" Dean asked sharply, drawing even with Sam. "What is-- _Shit_."

Instead of the pump the last waypoint had, this one had a simple well, built out of rough-hewn stone. The metal pail that served as a scoop had been cast aside, and it was now sitting, upturned and badly dented, as far as the rope tethering it would allow. It was speckled with old, dark blood, as were some of the well's rocks.

What was worse, though, was the arm draped over the well's edge, its skin pale save for the tips of the fingers, which were a stark purple-black.

"Shit," Dean said again. "The _water_."

He dismounted and approached the well, dreading what he would see. The dank smell of wet and rotting flesh filtered into the air. Dean wrinkled his nose but peered into the well anyway. Sure enough, there was a body attached to the arm. It was of a teenaged girl, and she appeared to have been strung up in the well, the pail's tether digging into her throat. She was up to her hips in the water.

Dean growled out another curse and pulled out his pocketknife, sawing at the rope. It gave way after a minutes of work, and he grabbed at the girl's wrist before she could sink any further into the water. The weight of her soaked clothes made it a strain to pull her out all the way, but Sam quickly stepped up to help, and after that it was a matter of moments before they had her laid out on the dusty desert ground.

"Well, she definitely didn't die from the hanging," Sam said quietly. He indicated the knife hilt jutting out from her stomach.

"So somebody strung her up like that after the fact?" Dean asked. He clenched his fists. "Why would any bastard in their right mind-- It's the only water source for leagues!"

The wind picked up a little, rustling the brush that had managed to grow around this rare source of water. There was also the faint, screaming sound of metal shifting. Turning, Dean saw a lean-to, just a sheet of metal propped up to provide some semblance of shelter (and the possible source of the glint they saw earlier). Scrawled on the lee side of it in paint were the words _Those who take from the water will soon return to the water_.

"That explains it," Sam said, nodding at the words. "Well, kind of."

"It don't explain why they would go and spoil the entire well," Dean said. He knew he was repeating himself, but it was all he could do, with all of the shocked anger roiling in him.

Sam shook his head. "I don't have an answer for you, Dean," he said. Then he knelt, studying the dead girl. "I _do_ know, though, that we should give her a proper burial."

The anger dimmed at that, and Dean looked down at the girl as well. After taking a slow, calming breath, he said, "Yeah. It's… Yeah. I'll find some firewood."

There was a pile under the lean-to, and soon they had a pyre set up around the girl. As it caught flame, Sam murmured a prayer for her spirit. Dean remained silent and turned away before the pyre completely caught. He had more important things to do than pray.

After fetching the bucket from its resting place, Dean drew water from the well, using the remaining length of rope to do it. It was unlikely the water was untainted, given how swollen and rotten the girl's lower half had been, but Dean had to hope against hope.

He could've saved himself the effort. The water in the bucket was clear, but the smell of decay wafted up from it. With a bitter curse, he threw the whole mess down.

"Dean," Sam said, his voice gentle but urgent. "We should go. If whoever did this is still nearby, it'll be trouble."

Dean sighed. "How much water do we have?"

"Dean--"

"Not for us," he said, overriding Sam. "Just for the horses. How much?"

Sam checked the waterskins both his and Dean's horses were carrying, his movements slow, as if he was reluctant to know the answer. When he was done, he looked pained. "We've got a little more than a third," he said.

That wouldn't last them until the next morning, let alone until they reached the next waypoint. Sam had definitely guessed it, and Dean _knew_ it, right down to his bones. "We're screwed, then," he said, raking a hand through his hair.

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "Maybe we'll meet someone further along willing to sell us water?"

"We haven't seen another soul since we left the Roadhouse. What are the odds--?" Something occurred to Dean, and he blinked before asking Sam, "How's your reserve?"

Sam frowned at Dean, lost by the abrupt question. "My what?"

"Your magic, Sammy. How much energy do you have?" Dean pointed at the well. "Could you purify the water?"

"I don't know," Sam said, after a moment's hesitation. He moved to peer down the well, Dean a step behind him. There wasn't much to see, the water reflecting the sunlight in brief snatches of light. A ring where the rock wall abruptly switched to a darker color marked where the water line used to rest, but that was it.

"It looks pretty shallow," Sam said, "but I don't know how much effort is needed to clean it. Rot-water is different from water with just some dirt in it."

Dean nodded in understanding, even as his mind scrambled for a solution. "What about a pail full of water?" he asked. "You could try purifying that, and then we'll go from there."

Sam glanced at the bucket. The water Dean had tossed out of it was mostly gone, either dried by the heat of the day or swallowed up by the thirsty ground. "Well," Sam said slowly, "It's worth a shot, I guess."

Dean clapped his brother on the shoulder in silent thanks before stooping to retrieve the bucket. When he brought it back, filled nearly to the brim, Sam was sitting against one of the walls, taking advantage of the scant shade it provided. He took the water without a word, easily cradling it in his large hands. A look of concentration settled over his face as he bent his head over the water and called on his magic.

Nothing happened at first. At least, nothing Dean could see. Sweat started beading at Sam's temples, and his jaw clenched with effort. Finally, after what felt like a small eternity, light began to gather along Sam's hands. It was slow to start with, but quickly picked up speed until, with a small flash, the gathered magic left Sam and swirled into the water. It faded in moments, leaving the water as clear as it had been before Sam started. Sam, however, was panting as if he'd just sprinted a mile. "Here," he gasped, holding the bucket up. "See if that did it."

The water no longer smelled rancid when Dean lightly swirled it. Encouraged, Dean took a small sip. "It's clean," he said after swallowing the water down.

"Good." Sam leaned his head against the wall behind him and closed his eyes, still panting. When his breathing calmed some, he said, "Fill all the waterskins that you can with that, and then get another bucketful."

Dean tightened his grip on the bucket's handle, afraid of dropping it in his surprise. "Sam," he started.

Sam cut him off with a shake of his head. Taking a deep breath, he straightened up and steadily met Dean's eyes. "I can do this," he said.

"You look like shit," Dean said. "Besides, this'll be enough for the horses, if we're careful--"

"Dean." Sam's voice was sharp, and his eyes gained a hard cast to them. "I can do this. Promise."

Dean stared at his brother, but Sam didn't waver. With a small huff of annoyance, Dean went to fill the waterskins. Sam didn't like when Dean got overprotective with him, but Dean couldn't help it. Their dad had taught Dean to keep his brother safe no matter what. And even though Sam was ow an adult and more than capable of taking care of himself, old habits died hard. Dean would always be Sam's protective older brother.

Besides, Dean thought to himself as he drew more tainted water from the well, it wasn't like Sam didn't fuss over Dean every now and then. If anything, they balanced each other out that way.

"No more after this," Dean said when he returned to Sam's side. "I don't need you suddenly passing out in the middle of nowhere. I can't carry your giant ass more'n a mile in this heat."

Sam scowled up at Dean as he took the pail, but he didn't argue. Which was a good thing, because Sam was swaying where he sat by the time he finished purifying this batch of water.

"Sorry," Sam muttered when Dean knelt to take the water from Sam's slack grip. "I guess I had less energy than I…"

He trailed off and his eyes briefly rolled back as his body slid sideways against the wall. With a bitten back curse, Dean grabbed Sam's shoulders and gently helped him lay down. Sam muttered apologies the entire time, head lolling weakly.

"Easy, easy," Dean said, soothing his brother into quiet. "I think we better stay put for a few hours."

Sam grimaced, his brows pinching together to form a guilty expression Dean was more than familiar with. "Sorry, I didn't mean to delay us--"

"Stop that," Dean said, lightly nudging Sam's shoulder. "You'll fret yourself into heat sickness. 'Sides, we're only stopping until sundown. We'll make up the lost time when it's dark and cooled off."

Sam settled under Dean's reassurances, calming enough to drop into sleep after a handful of minutes. Dean left him to it, knowing Sam needed to rest as much as he could after expending so much magical energy. As Sam slept, Dean checked over the horses and stored the rest of the purified water. By the time the sun had sunk halfway below the western horizon, Dean was sitting up beside his brother, cleaning both of their weapons, standing guard and trying not to think too hard.

At full dark, Dean nudged Sam awake. He looked much better than he did before he rested, and he climbed up into the saddle without complaint. Dean had lit two oil lanterns from the smoldering remains of the dead girl's funeral pyre, and he gave one to Sam before they rode back towards the main road.

"Did you sleep?" Sam asked once they were heading north again.

"Are you kidding?" Dean said. "After seeing that girl? I kept watch."

Sam grunted in acknowledgment, eyes forward as they rode on. "It's been more than a full day since you slept," he said gently. "Are you okay? We could just ride for a couple miles and then set up camp, so you can rest."

Something Dean was loath to admit was close to _fear_ jolted through him, and it was a struggle to keep himself from tightening his grip on Baby's reins. "I'm fine," he said, and left it at that.

=

Sam's regained energy began to wane a handful of hours before moonset, and Dean stopped for the night when it was clear that Sam was struggling to stay in the saddle. Setting up camp took mere moments, and Sam was in his bedroll before Dean even had the fire lit.

"Sam," Dean said, wanting to talk to him before he fell asleep. Sam hummed in response. "I'm gonna set up the wards tonight. That okay?"

Sam flapped a limp hand in Dean's general direction. "S'fine," he mumbled. "I'm not going anywhere." And just like that, he was out.

Dean shook his head at his brother--he _knew_ Sam had pushed himself way too hard throughout the entire day--before digging the bundle of wards out of his saddlebags. There were thirteen of them, each as long as his arm and made of pure iron, but as slender as a switch. Dean circled the camp, planting a ward every yard or so, until the entire site, horses included, were within its circle. When he was done, Dean knelt and flicked a finger against the first ward, murmuring the activation word at the same time. Runes flared to life along the ward and its mates, bathing the campground in green light before fading away once more.

Dean stood and stretched, satisfied. He liked using the wards. He and Sam had made them a few summers ago, Dean designing them while Sam wove the spells into them that would bring them to life. The wards protected anything within its circle from malicious spirits and most curses, and also made the camp invisible to the human eye. Even better, Dean could activate them on his own, as the wards carried their own small store of magic. For Dean, they were one of the most important tools in his arsenal.

Now, finally feeling safe for the first time in days, Dean flopped onto his bedroll, his exhaustion hitting him all at once. As he drifted into sleep, he briefly hoped that the wards would be enough to stave off anything that tried to wend its way into his dreams.

=

He didn't dream. Or, if he did, he didn't recall it in the morning. That was fine for Dean, and when he and Sam woke up around noon the next day, he felt well-rested.

"How's the magic, Sammy?" Dean asked as he cleaned up from breakfast. "All healed up?"

"As much as it will be," Sam said. He was gathering up the wards. "It'd be better, if I didn't have so much trouble sleeping last night."

Dean froze at that and watched Sam intently. "What was wrong?"

"Nothing," Sam said with a shake of his head. "Just… odd dreams."

A knot of worry tightened in Dean's chest. "Was there light?" he asked in a rush. "Light, and a loud, horrible voice?"

Sam shook his head again. "It was a lot of shadows and the sound of running water." He looked over at Dean, brow furrowed. "Is that what you dreamed the other night? Light and voices?"

Silently cursing himself for starting the conversation, Dean looked away from Sam. He put all of his attention on securing Baby's saddle as he muttered, "Yeah."

Sam stepped closer, the wards bundled up in his arms, eyes alight with curiosity. "What was it like?" he asked. "What happened? What did it say?"

"Whoa, Sam, slow down," Dean said with a laugh that was only half-forced. When Sam was curious about something, he was like a dog with a bone. Still, he didn't think he was ready to share the details of his nightmare with Sam. "It was just what I said: a lotta light and a lotta noise. Nothin' else special."

"Oh," Sam said, looking faintly crestfallen. "I was expecting something more, you know. Exciting."

"Sorry, Sam," Dean said as he climbed into Baby's saddle. "Not everything in our lives is all monsters and magic."

Sam laughed, long and loud, and Dean let that sound follow him as he led the way back to the road.

=

They reached the next waypoint, located where the road bent to the west, a little before dusk, and they didn't need the markers to tell them that. The stench of rotting flesh left to cook in the heat did that just fine.

"And I thought the girl was bad," Dean said, yanking his bandanna up to cover his mouth and nose. "At least the water kept her from smelling like this."

Sam hushed him, pulling up his own bandanna as well. "We still need water," Sam said. "Breathe through your mouth or something."

"Yeah, yeah."

The waypoint was set up like the last one, with a low wall surrounding the campsite and a well in the center of it. Two wagons were sitting against the southern wall, one hitched to the other. The horses were missing, either escaped or stolen. There was no one in sight.

Sam and Dean glanced at each other briefly before scanning their surroundings again. Dean had a hand on his sword hilt, and Sam had loosened his rifle from its saddle holster. "Check the wagons?" Sam asked, voice quiet. Dean nodded and, after silently indicating that he'd check the front one, the two of them split up.

By staying in the saddle, Dean was able to peer over the wagon's side without putting himself in range of any potential attacks. Baby snorted at the smell of death, but held her ground, and Dean murmured praise as he took in the bodies leaning against the wagon's sides. There were four of them, two adults and two children, skin dark and split from the sun. A family. Dean swallowed thickly and looked away.

"Dean," Sam called from the back of the other wagon. "Come take a look at this."

Dean nudged Baby towards Sam, glad to move away from the bodies. "Four dead up there," he told Sam.

Sam's brows furrowed deeply, the rest of his frown hidden by his bandanna. "I think I know why," he said, indicating the second wagon. When Dean looked in, he saw rows upon rows of barrels typically used for carrying water. They were all empty.

"I did a quick check of the well," Sam said. "It's nearly dry."

"No water for us again," Dean said. He tightened his grip on his reins, making Baby dance nervously. "What the fuck is wrong with this place?"

"I think it's a recent development," Sam said, calm in the wake of Dean's frustration. "Ellen would've warned us otherwise, and these people wouldn't have stopped here for water if they'd known."

Dean grunted in agreement, but wasn't soothed by Sam's reasoning. They were still without water, and the increasing body count was more than a little unsettling. "Okay," he said, thinking as he spoke. "We can't camp here. How far are we from the next stopping place?"

Sam shrugged a shoulder. "I'm pretty sure the town is the next place," he said, "and that's a half day's ride away from here, according to the map."

"And will our water carry us for that long?" Dean prodded at the waterskins strapped to his saddle as he spoke. About a quarter of them held water.

"If we're careful? Maybe." Sam glanced at the well. "I'll see if there's anything left to dredge from there. It's going to have dirt in it, probably, but…"

"Better than nothing," Dean finished. He slid off Baby's back. "You do that. I'll give those folks a proper send-off."

It was easier to make a pyre for the family than it had been for the girl. All Dean did was lay the bodies side by side before setting the whole wagon alight. As he dug in his belt pouch for flint, the glint of metal on the mother's chest caught his eye. It was a iron pendant, shaped in a sigil he didn't recognize. Intrigued, he gently worked the necklace over her head so that he could study it more closely.

Sam lost his grip on the silty water he'd managed to hoist out of the well, dropping it with a loud clang and a curse. It jolted Dean out of his reverie, and he stuffed the pendant into his pocket without a second thought. He'd ask Sam about it later. Right now, though, they needed to get a move on.

With the pyre lit, Dean went to help Sam scrounge for water. They only managed to fill up two skins with their efforts, and even then the water was gritty with dirt. They could have kept trying, but the sun had set while they worked, and neither of them wanted to linger in that place once darkness fell.

"Looks like we're staying dry until town," Dean said with a sigh. "The horses need what we've got more than we do."

Sam nodded, then smirked at Dean as they both mounted up. "Try not to faint from dehydration," he said.

"Please," Dean said, laughing, grateful for his brother's attempts to lighten the mood. "If either of us is gonna faint, it's gonna be you."

Sam scoffed, trotting his horse forward until he was ahead of Dean. "Moonlight's wasting, jerk."

Dean rolled his eyes but followed Sam out onto the westward road. He'd let his brother have the last word. For now.

=

The light swirled around the wards like a tide, forming a dome over his head at what he assumed was the upper limits of the wards' magic. In the light he saw that he was standing once more in the knee-high grasses of the plains he called home, an island of green in the endless brown of the desert. It was a small comfort in this land of death.

_No._

There was a heavy, echoing crack, like glass breaking, and the light was pushing past the wards, pouring into his space, blinding and consuming everything.

_This is a place of life._ And there was that voice again, that terrible screaming roar. Just like last time, it drove him to his knees in an instant. _It is simply different from what you know, interloper._

He wanted to scream, to run, to hide, but all he could do was kneel and hope this would end soon. He didn't know what this presence wanted--

_I told you, interloper. I want your help._

\--but he just wanted it to leave him alone. By all that breathed, he just wanted this torture to _stop_.

The swirling light paused for a moment, and when it started to shift again, its movements were slower than they had been before. _This pains you._

He thought that was obvious. He thought that was the point, to cow him into submission. A sigh, like the sound of waves rushing in to meet the shore, echoed around him.

_I cannot force you to aid me. That was never the goal._ Was it his imagination, or was the voice less painful to listen to? _Ah, but the dawn breaks. I will have to wait until next we speak to remedy this._

_Until then, interloper, rest. The road before you and your brother is long and full of dangers._

=

Dean was able to stifle his cry this time around, jerking awake with a strangled gasp instead. Sam shifted at the noise, but slept on, and Dean let out a relieved sigh. It was indeed dawn, he saw, sunlight lightening the distant mountaintops. Instead of waking Sam and urging them to ride on, Dean rose and walked a quick perimeter around their camp. They'd stopped an hour or so before midnight, setting up the wards before sleeping, and the way the wards had cracked in his dream worried Dean. He'd check them, and then his racing thoughts would settle down.

Each one he checked was intact, until he reached the western edge of the camp. One of them was splintered right down the middle, and the ones that framed it on either side were blackened, as if they'd been scorched.

The hairs on the back of Dean's neck prickled as he knelt to pull the broken ward out of the ground. What sort of creature was strong enough to break through a slew of protection spells and invade a human's dreams? Dean had never heard of such a monster, and that was enough to make his heart pick up speed and his grip tighten over the broken ward.

Shoving himself to his feet, Dean gathered the remaining wards and packed them away. He'd give Sam a few more hours to sleep, and then they'd head out. Once they reached town, Dean would ask Rufus about the creature haunting his dreams.

And, more importantly, he'd figure out how to get rid of it.

=

Sam, thankfully, didn't ask why Dean was standing watch when he woke up. He helped Dean pack up, chatting idly about what they'd do when they reached town, and once they were on the road he buried his nose in Ellen's book. Dean always forgot how perceptive Sam was, but he was thankful that Sam had decided to leave him to his own thoughts. After last night, Dean wasn't in much of a talking mood.

They saw a signpost around noon, standing twice as tall as the road markers they were used to seeing. _Salvation_ , it read, _5 mi_ , and pointed west ahead of them. Looking down the road, Dean could see a dark blur on the horizon, large enough to be a town.

"Finally," Dean muttered. It had been several hours since his last drink of water, and that, combined with the desert heat, made his voice raspier than usual. Glancing at the sign again as Baby walked past it, he said, "And who names a town out here something like _Salvation_ , anyway?"

Sam looked up from his reading, looking first at the sign and then at Dean. "I know, actually," he said. "Just read about it."

Bless Sammy and his booksmarts. "All right," Dean said, letting Sam catch up so that they were riding side by side. "Regale me with the tale of the town of Salvation."

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean's sarcastic tone, but he flipped back a few pages in his book, anyway. "So about seven hundred years ago," he said, "no one lived here. It was just desert as far as the eye could see. But then the village headman from the plains decided to take his people over the mountains to live here."

Dean gave Sam an incredulous look. "Why in the name of all that breathes would he do _that_?"

"It says something about him dreaming about it," Sam said, shrugging. "He thought it was a message from the Creator or something."

"Of course he did," Dean muttered. Straightening a little, he said, "Okay, so he relocates his entire village to the desert. What then?"

"They followed the path we did, following the mountains north. But they couldn't find water, and their supplies were running low. People began saying they were being led to an inevitable death."

"No, really?"

Sam hushed him and lightly socked his arm. "On the third night, one of the villagers, named Emmanuel, said that he had a vision. In it, he said, a terrible voice spoke to him." He gave Dean a pointed look, but Dean couldn't think of anything to say. After a moment of tense silence, Sam continued, "The voice told Emmanuel to take his village west, further into the desert.

"With no other options, the village leader followed Emmanuel's vision, and turned westward. Within a day, they came upon a great well."

"A well?" Dean repeated, eyebrows raised. "D'you mean they found a place to dig a well?"

Sam shook his head. "The book just says they found a well, like it was already there. Waiting for them."

"That ain't creepy at all," Dean muttered. "Yeah. Anyway, they immediately settled around the well, and eventually a town emerged. And, once they found the water for the waypoints, trade opened up between them and the plains, and the desert people flourished. The villagers wanted to name the town after Emmanuel, but he didn't want the credit. He didn't find the well, he said, the guardian just told him where to find it. So the people settled on the name 'Salvation' instead."

"Wait," Dean said. "Wait, back up. This guy said a guardian gave him directions?"

Sam glanced down at the book. "Yeah," he said. "That's the exact word the story uses. Guardian."

"Does the book say _what_ a guardian is? A monster? A spirit?"

"No," Sam said, thumbing through the pages he'd already read. "Other tales mention the guardian, too, but nothing explains _what_ it is."

"Of course it doesn't," Dean grumbled. "That would make things far too easy, wouldn't it?"

Sam, who'd been skimming through the book again, glanced up. "What?"

"Nothing." Nodding ahead of them, Dean said, "We're here."

During Sam's story, they'd approached the town at a steady pace, and now it loomed just ahead of them. A sign hanging across the road declared _WELCOME TO SALVATION_ in faded white letters. A crow--the first animal they'd seen since entering the desert--perched on the sign. It seemed to watch their approach, and when they were right about to pass under it the crow coughed out a rough call and took wing. The crow circled them once before flying deeper into the town.

"Okay," Sam said, as the crow vanished amongst the buildings, "there is no way that wasn't some sort of sign."

"And, knowing us, we're in for the worst sort of luck," Dean said. Clicking his tongue at Baby, he started forward again. "Let's see if we can at least find Rufus before that omen catches up to us."

With a short nod, eyes still worriedly fixed where the crow had disappeared, Sam also urged his horse forward, and both he and Dean rode into Salvation.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fountain. A threat. The dowsers. A meeting.

Salvation was a lot bigger than Dean or Sam expected. The buildings were packed in tightly, and none of them were less than two stories tall. Everything was built on foundations of rough-hewn stone, with the rest of the buildings made of wood turned a weary grey by time and the elements. After the wide expanse of the desert, Dean felt more than a little claustrophobic with the buildings towering him on either side.

"Did Bobby ever tell you where, exactly, Rufus lives?" Sam asked, studying a street that branched off of the main road. It eventually curved out of sight behind the buildings.

"Nope," Dean said. "And I'm guessing he didn't tell you, either."

Sam shook his head. "We could ask around," he said, his tone half-questioning.

Dean gestured at the empty road around them. The jingle of their horses' tack echoed dully as they rode past another intersecting street. "Do you see anyone to ask?"

"No," Sam said after a brief silence. "But maybe there'll be someone in the main square."

Up ahead the road opened up into a wide space, with what looked like a large statue in the center. "Maybe," Dean said. He tried to swallow, and his throat clicked painfully. "If anything, there should be water."

They rode in silence past the last block of buildings, crossing one more curving, intersecting street before reaching the center courtyard. The space was perfectly circular, the ground unpaved with the red-brown dirt of the surrounding desert. Two other roads, one leading west and another southwest, were also connected to the courtyard, leading back out into the flat desert. In the middle of the courtyard, the statue proved to be a large fountain made out of white stone. Its basin was forty paces across, filled almost to the brim with clear, sparkling water. Without prompting, the horses trotted to the basin and drank greedily.

"I guess we're not the only thirsty ones," Sam said lightly.

Dean grunted, dismounting in one fluid movement. Baby didn't even bat an eye at his shifting weight, her muzzle firmly submerged in the water. "I feel like I could outdrink the both of these beasts right now," Dean said.

Sam smirked. "Good thing there's plenty to go around, then."

"We'll see about that," Dean said. It was absently spoken, as his attention had shifted away from the conversation. As he slung his empty waterskins over his shoulder, he kept an eye on the townsfolk watching them. They were interspersed on the porches of a few houses, which were all built facing inward, towards the courtyard.

"Dean?" Sam turned to see what Dean was staring at and tensed. After a moment of overbearing silence, he quietly asked, "What now?"

"Dunno." The watchers didn't seem inclined to approach them, and they weren't protesting over the horses, which were still drinking. "Maybe they're just curious?"

"I guess they're not used to seeing travelers," Sam said. He watched the townspeople a little while longer before shrugging and dismounting. "Best take advantage of their quiet and fill up."

"Way ahead of you." Dean was already at the basin's edge, and he knelt to start dipping the waterskins into the fountain. The water was cool to the touch, a much-needed reprieve from the desert heat. As Dean methodically collected water, he looked up and studied the fountain's statue.

It was as tall as three men standing on each other's shoulders, and made of the same white stone as the basin. The statue itself was a great crested serpent, coiled with its head reared up and its crest spread wide. It looked down at a life-sized human figure standing within its coils, whose arms were raised in a gesture of supplication. Water poured from the serpent's open mouth, dousing the figure before flowing up and over the serpent's body and joining the water already in the basin. The entire statue was picked out in great detail, the scales on the serpent's body carved out meticulously and delicately. The human may have been just as detailed when first carved, but no longer. The water had worn away any and all of the person's features, and the statue was now nothing more than a faceless silhouette.

"Weird," Dean murmured. After a second's thought, his eyes narrowed the slightest bit. "Wait," he said slowly, "doesn't the snake look familiar, Sam?"

When there wasn't an immediate response, Dean turned his head to look over his shoulder. Two children had approached Sam's horse, and Sam was crouched down to their eye level, quietly talking to them. A quick glance towards the houses proved that, while the townspeople were still watching, none of them were visibly distressed about Sam chatting with their kids. Reassured, but still staying alert, Dean finished up gathering water.

As Dean shouldered the last full waterskin, a rusty cry brought his attention back to the statue. A crow, possibly the one that greeted him and Sam at the entrance to Salvation, landed on the serpent's head. It ruffled its feathers, cawed once more, and began picking at the serpent's blank stone eyes. Dean scowled at the bird, and briefly wished he had something to throw at it.

"Dean."

Startled, Dean looked over to find Sam standing next to him. He hadn't heard his brother's approach. "Yeah?"

Sam tilted his head towards the children, who were running back to the shade provided by the nearby buildings. "They know where Rufus lives," he said. "He's considered an elder of the town."

Dean snorted softly. From what Bobby had told them before they left, he and Rufus were very similar. If that was true, then Dean doubted Rufus appreciated the town calling him an elder. He'd have to remember to ask. "Is he nearby?" Dean asked Sam.

"Near the southern edge of town," Sam said, pointing to the southwestern road. "They said his house is marked, so I doubt we'll miss it."

"Great." Dean tossed a few waterskins at Sam, who instinctively caught them. "Let's load up and head over."

When Sam turned to fasten the skins to his saddle, Dean turned to look at the statue once more. The crow was gone, fluttered off to parts unknown. Satisfied, Dean stooped down, gathered some of the fountain's water into his hands, and took a sip. It held the same taste as the water Ellen had given him when she blessed their travels, of grass and sunlight and home, albeit faintly. Surprised, Dean hurriedly took another sip. It still tasted the same. Letting the remaining water trickled through his fingers, Dean stared up at the stone serpent.

"What _are_ you?" Dean asked softly.

The statue, of course, did not reply.

Laughing softly at his foolishness, Dean swung himself up into Baby's saddle and rode after Sam. He had a feeling that the desert would reveal its secrets only when it was good and ready.

=

When Sam said that Rufus's house was marked, Dean had figured that meant the house bore the sigil of a town elder, or even a council member. The sigil painted on Rufus's front door was definitely neither.

"Subtle," Dean said, studying the intricate symbol. It was a many pointed star trapped within a circle, which in turn was surrounded by runes. It was a well-known sigil amongst hunters, as it acted as a ward against most malevolent spirits. Since the sigil was something a common person wouldn't be familiar with, it practically screamed that the person living here was a hunter.

"I doubt anyone else in town knows what it means," Sam said.

"Or the guy's just paranoid enough that this seems like a sensible precaution," Dean added.

"Seeing as he's a friend of Bobby's, it's probably a little of both."

Dean smiled a little. "Probably," he said. "C'mon, let's go introduce ourselves before he starts throwing knives at us."

They left their horses hitched to a nearby post, and walked the short length to Rufus's house. Nothing happened when they climbed the porch steps, though Dean thought he saw a curtain twitch in a nearby window. Hoping that they weren't about to be attacked, Dean knocked on the front door, right at the sigil's heart.

After nearly a minute of stillness, the door opened a crack, and a dark eye peered out at both of them. "What?" a voice barked out.

"Are you Rufus Turner?" Sam asked.

The eye narrowed, and the door didn't open any wider. "Who's asking?"

"Bobby Singer sent us. Erm." Sam dug through his pockets and brought out a wrinkled envelope. "He told me to give this to you when we got here."

An arm reached out to grab the envelope, and then the door snapped closed. Dean and Sam exchanged a glance, but they stood their ground. After a handful of minutes, the door opened again, this time all the way. An older, dark-skinned man was on the other side, eyeing them warily.

"All right," the man - Rufus - said. "I guess I'll trust you, since Bobby's vouched for you. C'mon in and we'll talk."

Rufus stepped aside to let them through, and as they crossed the threshold he placed the knife he'd been hiding behind his back on a shelf next to the door. There was a knife rack below the shelf, full of blades of various metals and designs. A rifle, well-used and flecked with rust, hung on the wall above blades.

"I thought you were retired," Sam said, taking in the weapons as well as the wards adorning almost every inch of the interior walls.

"No such thing as retired in our business, boy," Rufus said, walking further into the room. There was a rickety looking table and a tall, crooked bookshelf, but that was it in the way of furniture. Rufus sat at the table and crossed his legs on its top, the picture of ease. "You're in it 'til you die. You should know that."

Neither Sam nor Dean responded. Sam looked troubled, and Dean redirected his attention to the weapons on the wall, specifically at the gun. For all of his talk, Dean would bet that it had been a while since Rufus had actively gone hunting. Firearms were rare, as the craft was still too new and risky. It was far too easy to buy a gun and have it explode in your hand the very first time you used it. Working, reliable guns, like the ones Sam and Dean carried, were precious and to be treated with great respect and care. The rust speckled across the muzzle of Rufus's rifle, therefore, spoke of disuse and a lack of intention to ever use it again.

"The letter says you're Winchesters," Rufus said, pulling Dean out of his musings. "You John's boys?"

"Yeah," Sam said. He approached Rufus, but seemed hesitant to sit down at the table. "I'm Sam, and he's my brother, Dean."

Rufus grunted. "He used to drift this way, on the trail of something or other," he said. "Haven't seen him in a few years."

"He's dead," Dean said, voice clipped.

"Ah. Shame." Rufus dropped his feet back to the ground and leaned forward. He grabbed a brown bottle from table and took a swig from it. "Guess it's to be expected, when you hunt. What got him?"

Dean's jaw tightened. "The usual thing," he said. "A monster got lucky. Now are we gonna talk about why you dragged us all the way out here or not?"

"Dean," Sam said quietly, voice stern. Dean shot him a glare, which Sam matched with equal force. Rufus watched the silent exchange, expression calm and curious. Finally, Dean looked away and mumbled something like an apology.

"Eh, I ain't offended," Rufus said, waving off Dean's words. "You're right, anyway. We should get down to business, 'cause I can't shake off the feeling that we're running on limited time."

Tilting back his chair, Rufus reached behind him and snagged a rolled-up length of parchment from his cluttered bookshelf. He opened it on the tabletop, revealing a map of the entire desert that was far more detailed than the one Sam carried.

"Right," Rufus said as he worked to stop the map from rolling back on itself. One corner was weighed down by his bottle, and the others by random small trinkets. "To know the problem, I gotta explain a few things about this place."

"There are three towns out here," he started, tapping the squares that marked their locations. "Salvation - that's us - then Fallowfield to the west of us and Deepwell to the southwest. Roads connect each town, and there are villages along them. None of them are as big as the main three, and I doubt they ever will be."

"Why not?" Sam asked.

"The towns each have a well, like the one you saw in the middle of Salvation." Rufus took a deep greath, and then gave both Dean and Sam an expressionless look. "In the seven centuries that people have been living here, these three wells have never gone dry, nor have they ever shown signs of emptying. Their water level is constant. Always constant."

There was a long silence as the brothers absorbed this information. "That can't be right," Sam said. "In the plains, any wells we dig last two, maybe three generations before going dry."

"They can last up to four generations here," Rufus said, "and that's for the ones the villages dig. That's why they're small - they have to keep moving. The towns can expand because their water sources are much more reliable."

"Yeah, but _why_ are these wells so special?" Dean asked. "Are they magicked? Are there witches or elementals at play here? Is it a curse?"

Rufus shrugged. "I've been to each well, looked for signs of all that," he said. "They're all clean. No witchcraft, no elemental castings, nothin'. They seem to be plain ol' wells, filled with plain ol' water."

"Plain ol' wells don't last for seven hundred years," Dean said.

"And yet they don't have a trace of badness to them," Rufus said, vaguely gesturing at the map. "The problem happening right now ain't the wells. Well, not directly."

Sam's brow furrowed. "Then what is?"

Rufus was quiet for a moment, lightly rubbing a thumb over a scattering of towns southwest of Salvation. "Several villages - six wells - went dry on the same day. Deepwell's water level is dropping. And I don't know how to stop it."

=

They took a break from talking after that. The sun was just touching the horizon, and dusk began to slowly sweep across the desert. Dean watched as Salvation came to life, people leaving their homes and pouring into the streets as the sunlight dimmed. It was such an odd contrast to the empty Salvation Dean and Sam had seen at midday, and at such an odd time, that Dean commented on it aloud.

"Most folk around here stay inside during the afternoon," Rufus said. "We're mostly outside during dawn and dusk, when it ain't as hot."

"I think we've been traveling the wrong way, Sam," Dean said. "Night travel seems to be the way to do it out here."

"I wasn't the one who was complaining about sleeping in the day before we even crossed the mountains," Sam said. His curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he was seated at the table, studying Rufus's map. He didn't look up as he added, "I figured that maybe you _wanted_ to get heat sickness."

Dean glowered at the back of Sam's head, but before he could voice a comeback, Rufus spoke. "As much as I enjoy hearing y'all bicker, I gotta head out." He shrugged into a ratty-looking jacket and grabbed a hat from his bookshelf. "There's a council meeting tonight."

"Your title ain't for show?" Dean asked with a crooked grin. "You're actually a town elder?"

"Yeah, and I can still kick your ass in under five minutes," Rufus said. "Bein' on the council helps me keep tabs on any odd goings-on in the desert. I pass everything on to the local hunters after that."

"Oh." Dean hadn't considered that advantage. Then the second half of what Rufus said registered. "Wait, you have hunters out here? Why not ask them for help for the whole water thing? Why ask us?"

Rufus paused at the front door, hat in hand, head slightly bowed. He said in a rough voice, "I did. They're all gone."

Dean felt the blood drain from his face, and saw Sam's head jerk up to stare at Rufus. "What?" Dean asked. "What do you mean--"

"Ain't got time to talk," Rufus said, putting his hat on and pulling the door open. "I'll be a few hours. If I remember, I'll bring food."

"Rufus--"

The door slammed shut, cutting off Dean's protests. He stared at the door for a second before turning away with a sigh. Sam was watching him, worry edging his expression. "What in the name of all that breathes did we get ourselves into?" Dean asked.

"I don't know," Sam said. His fingers worried one of the map's corners, and he looked over the map's contents with something like dread. "I've got a feeling we'll find out, though. Whether we want to or not."

=

The sun set soon after Rufus left, and lanterns were hung at almost every door, illuminating the busy streets. Sam finished looking over the map, and moved his attention to a tome that had been left open on the table. Dean pulled the chair Sam wasn't using over to the window and sat, watching the people walking by. Faintly, he heard the cries of merchants trying to sell their wares. Even though trade across the mountains had stopped, it seemed that it was still alive and well amongst the desert's residents. Dean was amazed, vaguely, over these people's resilience, and how they still managed to thrive in this wasteland.

That made Dean think of how the thundering voice had chastised him last night, when he'd called the desert a place of death. He winced faintly at the memory. There was life in the desert, according to the dream-voice. Dean just couldn't see it.

He wondered if he ever would.

As his thoughts wandered, Dean felt himself slipping closer to sleep. He never did fall asleep entirely, and instead dozed. His eyes moved under his lids as images flickered through his half-awake mind. He saw a ring of fire, a fountain of flowing light, blood and scales. Lastly, Dean saw a man - himself - wrapped in the coils of a giant snake. Shadows pressed in around them and the snake hissed at the darkness, fangs sharp and bright, eyes full of righteous fury--

A bang jolted Dean to full consciousness, and he had a blade in his hand and at the ready before he fully knew what was happening. Rufus stood in the doorway, holding a satchel and what looked like a jug of water. He raised an eyebrow at Dean.

"It's just me," Rufus said. He looked over at Sam. "Is he always this jumpy?"

"Not always," Sam said, watching as Dean stood and put his knife away. Dean didn't need to look over to know Sam was worried. Dean only startled that easily if he was stressed or in the middle of a hunt. He couldn't help that he kept having dreams that were borderline nightmares, but he also didn't have to share them with Sam. Instead, Dean resolutely kept his attention on Rufus. 

"Guess I'm not used to this place yet," he said in way of apology.

Rufus shrugged. "As long as you don't start blasting holes in anything, I don't care," he said. He crossed the room to the table and dropped his satchel on it. "Got us food. It ain't much, but it'll fill you up."

There were strips of jerky in the satchel, as well as several vegetables and fruits Dean couldn't name. As Sam poked his way through the food choices, Rufus dug up some cups and poured them all water.

"Where did this all come from?" Sam asked. "We haven't seen anything but scrub since we got here, and even _that_ was rare."

"Most of the farmland out here is in the west, at Fallowfield," Rufus said. "They've got livestock, too, but not much. They mostly get jerky and leather from 'em."

"No kidding," Dean said. He didn't want to think about how quickly raw meat spoiled out here. Shoving those grim thoughts aside, Dean started eating.

Everything was simple, but it tasted good and was just as satisfying as Rufus promised it would be. There was a bright red fruit, soft and full of sweet juice, that Dean took a particular liking to, and he ate half of Sam's share in addition to his own. Sam glared at Dean each time he stole a fruit, but didn't do anything to stop him.

When they'd eaten their fill, Rufus packed away the remaining food in another room - most likely his kitchen - and when he returned, he had brought a bottle of some sort of liquor with him. Sam shook his head when Rufus tilted the bottle in his direction, but Dean held out his cup so Rufus could fill it. He had a feeling that he'd need it to listen to what Rufus had to say.

"So," Rufus said, once he'd poured his own drink and was settled back in his seat. "You asked me about the local hunters, right before I left."

"Yeah, and you said they were all gone," Dean said. "You gonna explain what you meant?"

"I'll try." Rufus knocked back a long swallow of his drink with barely a grimace. "Back when the wells all dried out, we started getting word of a huge, horse-drawn carriage wandering around the southwest villages."

Sam straightened up in his seat. "Where the drought started."

"Smart boy. Yeah, I figured it was a disturbed spirit, or a spectre at the very worst. I sent out word to the hunters in that area." Rufus looked into the depths of his cup, expression drawn, finger tapping an idle rhythm on the cup's rim. "I never heard anything back from them.

"I sent out notice to all the other hunters in the desert. Most said they would investigate. I never heard back from them, either. I guessed - _hoped_ \- that it was just a huge, difficult hunt, and none of them had time to contact me. I didn't want to think of that many hunters wiped out at once, just like that."

Rufus fell silent, and neither brother pushed him to continue. Dean had gone tense, hands clenched into tight fists on the tabletop. Sam was in a similar state, the lantern light throwing his clenched jaw into stark relief. With a soft curse, Rufus finished the rest of his drink. His hands shook slightly as he put his cup down.

"A couple weeks back," he continued, "I got woken up before dawn by a banging on my door. It was Tamara and Isaac, a pair of semi-retired hunters, along with their kids. They were the ones who told me that every single hunter who'd gone after the carriage was dead. They'd decided to take their kids and head over the mountains and that if I was smart, I would follow them. And seeing that I haven't heard anything else since, I'm inclined to believe 'em."

"Wait," Sam said, alarmed. By his expression, he'd realized the same thing Dean did. "You said they had kids? How many?"

Rufus glanced at Sam and Dean, curious. "They had three. Two boys, no more'n ten, and a girl. She's sixteen, if I remember right."

Sam slumped back in his seat. The look he gave Dean was bleak. "Do you think…?"

"Yeah." Dean wiped a hand across his mouth, feeling sick. "Shit."

"What?" Rufus said - demanded, really. His confusion was replaced with irritation and a trace of fear. "What is it?"

In short, quick sentences, Sam told Rufus what he and Dean had encountered on the way to Salvation. Rufus's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair when Sam described the dead girl in the well, and by the time they got to the family at the third waypoint, Rufus was ashen.

"That could be them," Rufus said, his voice shaking. "It probably is, but… What happened? Any idea?"

Sam shook his head. "It looks like the girl may have died first, maybe. No clue why, though, or how the rest of them lost all their water."

"And that ain't the worst of it," Dean said. "Think about it: with two waypoints in a row either empty or tainted, there's no route out of the desert. Everyone is trapped here, us included."

Rufus looked grim, and years older than he had a few hours ago. "Put like that, we don't have much of a choice," he said. "We gotta figure this out, before this problem spreads any further and wipes us all out."

"'We'?" Dean repeated. "When exactly did we agree to help you?"

"Since you stepped foot in this desert," Rufus snapped back. "Y'all are the last hunters out here. Either you do your job, or we all die."

The glare Sam shot at Dean was scathing, and Dean shrank a little under it and Rufus's sharp words. "I was mostly joking," he muttered.

"It was a shit joke," Rufus said flatly. "Are you gonna help or not?"

"We will," Sam said, jumping in before Dean could dig himself into a deeper hole. "We help people. It's what we do."

"Good." Rufus pushed himself to his feet, his chair scraping back noisily. "I'll see if I can rustle up some blankets for you two. I'd send you out now, but you look half-dead right now."

"Where are you gonna send us?" Dean asked. "After the ghost carriage?"

Rufus shook his head. "It may have a taken a while, but this old dog has learned his lesson. Nah, I reckon I'll send you west, to Fallowfield."

Sam frowned a little. "What's out there?" he asked.

"Some refugees from the villages that've dried up, for one. Also the largest group of dowsers we got round here."

"Dowsers?" Sam's frown deepened as he repeated the word. "What're those?"

Rufus smiled thinly. "Water witches," he said. "Good ones. No more talk tonight, now. You boys have to be up before dawn, and I've got research to do."

=

There wasn't much furniture in Rufus's house. He had shelves upon shelves of books dedicated to monster lore, the table they'd sat at when they ate, and a lone bed, tucked away on the second floor bedroom. This meant that, when all was said and done, Dean and Sam had to sleep on the floor, with only their own bedrolls and the thin blankets Rufus gave them to act as makeshift mattresses. It wasn't the worst sleeping arrangements they'd ever had, but it was also nowhere near the best. Sleep would be hard to accomplish that night.

Dean laid on his back, hands tucked under his head. To his left, Sam was breathing slow and steady, back to Dean. He wasn't asleep - Sam never failed to snore once he was unconscious, a noise that always seemed to rattle the windows and shake the dust from the ceiling - but Dean guessed he was close. That was good. At least one of them would be well rested for tomorrow.

Too many worries were rattling around Dean's head, making it impossible for him to even attempt sleep. The main ones had to do with what was happening in the desert - the threat of a catastrophic drought, the deaths of so many hunters, the mystery of the wells - but in the back of his mind he couldn't help but wonder what would happen once he fell asleep. What would be waiting for him in his dreams.

Sighing in frustration, Dean rolled onto his side. He shouldn't be afraid of his own dreams. The voice may have said that it had never meant to hurt him, but that didn't instantly resolve the pain of those dreams. Why should Dean trust anything a dream voice tells him? Especially when said voice promised to visit him again at an unscheduled time? When Dean considered it that way, he was impressed he was still able to sleep at all.

Maybe he'd ask Rufus for possible solutions tomorrow, Dean decided as Sam's snoring began to fill the room. He'd forgotten to ask earlier, thanks to the more important issues at hand. If anything Rufus could research it alongside trying to figure out this drought. Feeling more settled, sleep began to tug at his mind, and he soon drifted off. He thought he heard something like the heavy rush of a rain-swollen river right before sleep washed over him, but that was it. He slept through the rest of the night undisturbed.

=

Rufus got them up a little before dawn, wanting them on the road before it got too hot. There were still people wandering the streets outside and, according to Rufus, they would continue to do so until noon or so.

"Desert heat ain't something to ignore, even if you're a native of these parts," Rufus said as he passed out tea and hard cakes full of dried fruit.

"We know," Dean said. "Bobby gave us the full lecture before we rode out here."

"'Course he did. He's not as helpless as the rest of you plainsfolk. He's tough, like a true desert man."

Dean grumbled, turning his attention back to his breakfast. He wasn't nearly awake enough to tolerate insults. A few minutes passed in silence, and then Sam asked, "How far is it to Fallowfield from here?"

"Four, maybe five days. There are a few villages between us and them, and a waypoint or two if the villages are too far apart. You should be fine." Rufus handed Sam a leather tube used for storing parchment. "That's my map. I expect it back in good condition."

Sam tucked it away in one of his duster's many pockets. He thanked Rufus, who waved him off gruffly. He then moved to clean up breakfast, telling Sam and Dean they'd want to leave sooner rather than later.

"When you get to Fallowfield, look up the Moseley family," Rufus told them when they were packed and ready. "They're the town's resident dowsers."

"The water witches?" Dean said. "How d'you know they're trustworthy?"

Rufus shrugged. "Their magic is specifically tuned for finding water when a village goes dry," he said. "They're good folk, even if they do believe in a patron god."

Dean raised his eyebrows. Deities, outside of the Creator, were only particularly strong elementals tricking the local people into giving them human sacrifices or treasure. They were very far from harmless, and Rufus's casual attitude was baffling. "Why didn't you mention this before?" he asked.

"'Cause I've never caught wind of any weird rituals or deaths," Rufus said. "They say it just wants life to thrive here, which is why it gave the dowsers their ability to find water trapped underground."

"That sounds like Emmanuel's guardian," Sam said.

"Guardian, deity, same thing." Rufus shrugged again. "I've never seen it, no one's dying because of it, so I don't particularly care."

Dean snorted derisively, but didn't comment. Rufus exchanged goodbyes with them, and once they were on the porch, he shut and locked his door behind them.

"I can see why Bobby likes him," Sam muttered as they stepped off the porch and onto the street.

That pulled a genuine laugh from Dean. "Two grumpy peas in a pod," he said, and Sam grinned. "Now c'mon, let's cover some miles before the heat catches up to us."

=

The journey to Fallowfield was easy, in comparison to their ride to Salvation. They passed their first night in a nameless village, in the unoccupied guest room of a particularly generous (and lonely) widower. The next village was less generous, and the brothers had to exchange a few hours of labor for a place to sleep. Sam and Dean did the work without complaint. After what Rufus told them, sleeping in the open desert seemed a lot less safe.

As they traveled, they spoke to the locals, trying to learn more about the desert. Most villagers were tight-lipped around them, wary of these strangers drifting through their homeland. Some people, however, were much more open, and were willing to share information about their land and their deity.

"Deity?" one older woman from the second village said before shaking her head. "Ain't no deities here. Just the guardian."

"But does it ask for payment?" Sam asked her. "Like gold, or part of your harvest, or… people?"

"You don't know much about guardians, do you," the woman said with a snort. "It's made to protect us. Why would it need any other reward?"

That left Sam and Dean baffled. They had never heard of a creature that didn't demand anything in return for its services. It didn't help that another person they questioned spoke of how the guardian used to wander the desert in the guise of a human, helping those in need.

"It doesn't make sense," Dean said. It was their third night traveling, and they had chosen an abandoned stable as their shelter. No one in this village had been willing to talk to them, let alone put them up for the night. "This thing helps people, and apparently guards the land, but what does it get out of it?"

Sam shrugged as he unfolded his bedroll in the stall next to his horse. "Satisfaction, maybe."

"It ain't human, it doesn't follow our rules."

"Why does it matter?" Sam asked. His tone was mild, but when he turned to look at Dean, there was real concern and confusion in his eyes. "It's not harming anyone. In fact, it's being helpful. So could you stop obsessing over it and focus on what Rufus told us to do?"

Dean glared at Sam for a moment before flapping back to sprawl out on his bedroll. He then crossed his arms and directed his glare at the ceiling. The thing was, Dean hated not understanding something, especially if it pertained to his job. He didn't know what this desert's guardian was, or what it wanted, and he doubted he'd be able to rest easy until he figured it out.

But Sam was right, as loath as Dean was to admit it. It was useless for him to spend all of his energy fretting over a creature that may or may not exist. It'd be more useful for him to focus on why they'd been summoned to the desert in the first place. Anything else, really, was just a distraction.

Huffing out a tired sigh, Dean tried to push his questions about the guardian to the back of his mind. It was reluctant to go, but it did eventually fade into nothing more than a quiet murmur that he could easily ignore. With that done, his attention shifted to the exhaustion weighing down his limbs. He slowly let out a breath and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

=

On their fourth night there was a waypoint instead of one of the villages they'd become accustomed to. It was large, with several hitching spots for horses and multiple fire pits and food stores. Traffic on this road must have been heavier than it was on the road leading out to the mountains. Once the sun set that night, a scattering of lights flickered into existence on the horizon, indicating something much larger than a village. The town of Fallowfield was less than a day's ride ahead.

Sam and Dean arrived in Fallowfield proper a few hours past noon. Unlike Salvation, it was bustling despite the heat. People rushed here and there, carrying goods of all sorts, and children ran underfoot. Surprisingly, there was also livestock. Chickens scratched at the dirt roads, and every now and then a small herd of cattle trundled by, led by a pair of farmers. In comparison to Salvation, Fallowfield was a much more lively and chaotic place.

"I wasn't expecting so many people," Sam said, watching the flow of the crowd around them. His gelding walked through it all with his usual placid calm.

Baby, on the other hand, was less pleased by the onslaught of people. Dean had to yank her head away from a farmer who'd come into biting range before saying, "Hey, at least the buildings aren't crowding us."

Everything was built with the same materials as they were in Salvation - wooden buildings on stone foundations - but instead of narrow, multi-story houses, everything was low and long, most likely in accommodation for the town's focus on farming. Dean definitely preferred this style. It didn't feel like the buildings were looming over him.

"I bet their well looks different, too," Sam said. His eyes were alight with curiosity, and he nudged his horse into an easy trot. Shaking his head at Sam's eagerness, Dean also picked up his pace.

The well was situated in the middle of a huge square, which seemed nearly empty in comparison to the street they'd just left behind. The well was long, low, and narrow, almost like an enormous trough made of white stone. Wavelike lines were carved into its sides, and that was it in the way of decoration. At the western end of the well, two hundred paces away, various livestock milled about, taking turns drinking the water. Farmers kept a close eye on their animals, and merchants lined the southern end of the square, but the foot traffic was fairly light. The western edge of the square was empty space, and as Sam and Dean rode closer to the well, they saw why.

Dean whistled lowly. The western side of Fallowfield was situated at the bottom of a huge, natural dip in the earth, and it had all been turned into farmland. Narrow, manmade streams, entrenched in the same white stone as the well, flowed downslope and into the fields, crossing each other countless times as they delivered water to the crops. They couldn't see where the streams started from where they stood, but Dean would bet that the well fed them.

"This is amazing," Sam said in an awestruck whisper. "They tailored their well to suit their needs. I've never seen anything like this."

Dean hummed his agreement. It was beautiful in its ingenuity, and he could appreciate that.

"Dean," Sam said. He looked ill. "If this town starts losing water…"

"Then the crops start dying, and everyone is screwed," Dean finished grimly. "I know."

Sam swallowed convulsively, still looking out over the farmland. His eyes hardened and he abruptly turned his horse away from the sight. "Let's find the Moseley family. Quickly."

Dean nodded and followed Sam as he approached the farmers, who were watching them with quiet interest. Sam was polite as he spoke to them, exchanging pleasantries before asking about the Moseleys. His kindness paid off, as the farmers indicated a narrow path that led westward. According to them, the Moseley clan lived at the edge of the farmland.

"Best watch your step," a young farmer said, pushing his wide brimmed hat back so he could regard Sam and Dean. "They been accosted by travelers from round Deepwell. Dunno why, but they won't give the dowsers no peace."

Sam's brow furrowed and he glanced at Dean, who could only shrug in response. Thanking the farmers for their aid, the brothers went on their way.

The path hugged the edge of the farmland, and a stream ran between the dirt and the crops. All of the plants were low to the ground and scraggly, and Dean saw many of the fruits he'd eaten at Rufus's place. All these crops, then, must be native to the desert and had been painstakingly introduced to these farmlands. Dean couldn't help but marvel at the thought.

About two miles out, a house came into view. It was huge, tall and sprawling, the kind of house built to hold the entirety of an extended family under one roof. A cluster of tents was situated next to the house, and as Sam and Dean approached, they heard the chatter of many voices. They didn't sound angry, but Dean still felt wary. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam loosen his longsword in its sheath.

They passed the tent village on their way to the front of the house. The stream took a sharp right there, cutting through the tents before plunging back into farmland. The tents were unoccupied, save for a few thin dogs and teenaged boy keeping a keen eye on a handful of children playing in the dirt. One of the dogs growled as Sam and Dean rode by, but no one stopped them. Soon enough, they rounded the corner to the western side of the house.

A crowd of people stood around the front porch, staring up at the house. They were all talking at once, their voices a blur of noise, but as they caught sight of the newcomers, they all began to fall silent.

"Hello," Sam said awkwardly after the quiet spun out to a far uncomfortable length. The crowd continued to stare.

"We're here to see the Moseleys," Dean said, putting on his most charming smile. "So we'd really appreciate it if you'd let us through."

"Who's to say you have a greater right than us to see them?" someone asked. Murmurs rippled through the crowds, reminding Dean of how the wind would rattle the long grasses of the plains right before a storm blew in.

Dean's smile slipped. "What?"

"What makes you so important?" another voice called out.

"Look," Sam said, holding up a hand, "we're not saying--"

"We've been here for days, driven out of our homes by a curse! We should see the Moseleys before you!"

The murmurs had escalated to angry muttering. Baby, feeling the tension in the air, danced nervously in place. Dean looked at Sam out of the corner of his eye. If they didn't placate the crowd soon, this would end badly.

The sound of a door opening silenced the crowd again, and everyone turned to look at the house. A dark-skinned woman stood on the front porch, hands on her hips as she surveyed the people gathered around her house. Everything was still for a handful of breaths, and then everyone started talking at once.

"Lady dowser, please--!"

"I lost my crops, a whole five acres--"

"My youngest is close to heat sickness--"

"Driven out of my home! Please, lady--"

The woman lifted one hand, and the crowd went quiet. Tilting her head, she pointed squarely at Sam and Dean. "The mistress will see you two first," she said.

Angry yells met this, but they abated at the woman's quelling look. "You will all be seen," she said, "but their problem comes before yours. Let them pass."

Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd parted. Sam and Dean dismounted and walked their horses up to the porch, the glares from the crowd like a physical pressure on their backs. The woman watched their approach with dark, solemn eyes.

"One of my sons will tend to your horses," she said. "Now come, my mother doesn't like to be kept waiting."

It was dim and cool inside the house, the curtains drawn to keep the heat of the day at bay. The house was cluttered with trinkets and mismatched furniture, but it managed to look charming instead of messy. Dean caught sight of more than one protective sigil hidden amongst the decorations.

"I apologize for that," the woman said as she led them down a narrow hall. "They lost their homes and did not know where else to go. It's made them desperate."

"Ma'am," Sam said hesitantly, "is there any way you could speak to the people outside before us?"

The woman stopped and turned to Sam, visibly shocked. "You have a much more pressing reason for being here."

"Perhaps," Sam said. "But they were here first, and, like you said, much more desperate. We can wait." He looked over at Dean. "Right?"

Bless Sam and his giant heart. Shrugging, he directed a smile first at Sam, and then at their hostess. "We can talk tomorrow. We ain't in too much of a rush."

The woman studied both of them for a moment, and then sighed. "Very well, she said. "Then I'll make sure you're at least settled comfortably here. The Moseleys are not a family to shirk being good hosts."

The woman - Rosalie, they found out, when they finally traded greetings - led them to the kitchen before slipping away again. They were sat down immediately and fed, told to get their fill before they were shown their rooms. As they ate, they watched the Moseley clan cook and talk and tend to the children running about like wild beasts. By the time they were remembered and led upstairs, it was well past sunset. The house was so big that Sam and Dean got separate rooms, both situated on the third floor. Not used to such a luxury, Dean enthusiastically sprawled out on the bed and fell asleep with ease.

=

The dream was beginning to become familiar. He still stood in a circle of plainsgrass, and the desert still surrounded him. Light coiled around him in a steady swirl of motion. Looking at it still hurt, though its brightness was somewhat subdued.

"I thought you said you'd be less painful this time around," he said, startled to discover that he could say anything at all. He'd been too distressed to try before this.

_I did say that,_ the light said. Its voice still held more than a trace of roaring thunder, but it was much gentler. _I simply wanted to make sure the contact was successful beforehand. Now. One moment, please._

The light shifted away from him before pooling at the outer borders of the grass circle. It paused, curled in on itself in a way that was oddly familiar. Then it began to shrink, growing brighter as it did so, until he was forced to shield his eyes with one upraised arm.

There was a burst of light and sound, and then stillness. Slowly, he lowered his arm and cracked his eyes open. The light was gone. In its place stood a man, tan and solid, with dark windtossed hair and eyes so blue they almost seemed to glow.

The man let him gape for a moment, the corner of his mouth quirked up in the slightest of smiles, and then he spoke in a voice that sounded gravelly with disuse.

"Hello, interloper."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had a huge personal emergency happen for the entire week leading up to the 15th, so it left me way way behind. As an apology, this chapter is nearly three thousand words longer than usual. Also, to (hopefully) ensure this doesn't become a thing, I'll be updating the 1st and 16th now. Thank you for being so understanding!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation. A dowser. The library. A witch.

He gaped at the light-turned-man, lost for words. The man didn't seem offended by the ensuing silence, and instead tilted his head the slightest bit. His eyes were alight with calculative curiosity.

"Is something the matter?" the man asked.

"Um, no. No, it's just," he gestured at the man's bare form, "when you said you had a solution to our difficulty communicatin', this wasn't what I expected."

The man looked down at himself and traced the fingers of one hand over the shape of his jaw and down the column of his throat, as if he were familiarizing himself with his own body. "This seemed to be the most practical solution," he said. "Though it has been several decades since I've donned this form. It proved more difficult than I remember."

"A few--?" He narrowed his eyes at the man. "Who are you?"

"I have many names," the man said. "If you must call me something, then you may call me Castiel."

"And _what_ are you, Castiel?" he stumbled over the name a little, its shape foreign on his tongue.

Castiel paused, eyes widening for the briefest moment, as if he hadn't been expecting that question. His eyes slid towards the ground before his expression smoothed out and he looked up again. "I represent someone who shares a common goal with you."

There was no way that hadn't been a lie. He tensed, wary, suddenly aware that, since they were in his mind, he was most likely defenseless against whatever attacks Castiel may attempt. Still, he instinctively shifted into a stance that would make it easier to defend himself. The plainsgrass surrounding him whispered against his legs as he moved. Castiel watched him settle into his new position and smiled. It was barely more than an upturn of one corner of his mouth, but it was a smile nonetheless.

"You believe you can fight me?" Castiel asked, voice laced with quiet amusement and the barest hint of arrogance.

"No," he said. "But I want to be ready, in case you're itchin' to start something. I ain't one to go down easy."

Castiel sighed, the sound like the rush of rains across the plains. Thunder rumbled far out in the distance, faint and ghostly. "I don't wish to fight," he said. He sounded tired. "I only want… I was sent here to ask for your aid."

He stared at Castiel incredulously. "So that whole thing, the lights and the terrifying noises, was because you wanted my help?"

"As I've mentioned in your previous dreams, yes." Thunder sounded again, closer this time. Castiel glanced out into the desert with a look akin to worry before returning his attention to the conversation at hand. "Will you help or not?"

"Whoa, hey, slow down," he said, raising both hands in a halting gesture. "First things first: who do you represent?"

"You can't simply act on the faith that you'll help someone in dire need?" Castiel asked, impatience bleeding into his words.

He folded his arms across his chest. "Nope. Been there, done that, nearly died. I don't do the anonymous thing anymore."

"And what of you?" Wind gusted across the desert, kicking up dust and rustling the grass. Castiel's hair became even messier under the wind's abuse, and his eyes blazed with anger. Dark clouds rolled up from the horizon, blotting out the stars. "You demand information, _interloper_ , and yet give none in return. How am I to trust you if you do not trust me?"

He stayed silent, glaring, expression stony. Castiel glared right back. Lightning split the sky, thunder roared, and he could smell rain on the wind.

A minute of silence passed, and then Castiel's expression softened. "I don't understand," he said. As he spoke, he reached out and brushed his hand along the tips of the plainsgrass. "You are an outsider, and yet your spirit resonates so strongly with, ah, with the desert. I thought you'd be more than willing to help."

Castiel plucked a blade of grass and brought it up to his eye level. It twisted in his grip, the ever-rising wind pulling at it, before dissolving into a flurry of desert-colored dust. It was blown away in an instant.

"Perhaps I was wrong," Castiel said, his words nearly lost in the chaos of the approaching storm. It was almost upon them, clouds dark and heavy above their heads. Castiel studied the skies with a look of resignation and turned away. "Forgive my intrusions. I'll look for aid elsewhere."

His throat tightened as Castiel's form began to blur, leaking out in swirls of light. "Wait," he called out, taking an involuntary step forward. "Hey, wait!"

Castiel turned to face him again, eyebrow raised. He still didn't know if he could trust this creature, this light-thing that could invade his dreams with such ease. But Castiel's words rang with sincerity, and it would take a colder man than him to ignore that. Keeping that in mind, he took a deep breath and spoke.

"My name's Dean. If I'm gonna help you, you're gonna have to quit that whole 'interloper' business."

Surprise swept across Castiel's face, leaving him blinking and staring. Then it melted into a huge, eye-crinkling smile. "Thank you," he said. His voice was heavy with relief. "Dean."

Before he could continue, lightning flashed, close and blinding. Dean felt the following roll of thunder in the very marrow of his bones. Rain spat down in a harsh, unsteady rhythm. Castiel flinched at the first touch of water against his skin and hunched his shoulders defensively. The rain running down his back was black as ink, as was the smoke that began to rise off it.

Startled, Dean tried to run to Castiel's aid. Another bolt of lightning lashed down, this time right in front of him, and it sent him flying. He felt the dream fall apart all around him before he hit the ground.

=

Large hands held him down at the shoulders, and as Dean woke up he instinctively lashed out at the restraint. By the time he managed to clear the sleep fog from his head, he found himself pinning Sam to the floor, his arm twisted back so that his hand was between his own shoulderblades. Dean immediately released him, muttering an apology as he got to his feet. Sam waved it off as he stood as well, shaking his arm out without comment.

"Let me guess," Sam said as Dean sat down on his bed, "another dream?"

"Yeah." Dean smeared a hand across his face, stubble rasping against his calloused palm. "Did I scream?"

Sam shook his head. "Just thrashed a lot. I didn't want you knocking anything over, so," he trailed off and shrugged, and Dean knew what he meant. "Must've been a bad one, yeah?"

"Nah, not the entire thing. Just the tail end of it." With a small grunt, Dean stretched his arms over his head until he heard his spine pop, and then reached under his bed for his bags. He wasn't going to sleep after that dream, so he might as well get dressed.

Sam, who was mostly dressed already, frowned at Dean. "What was it about this time?"

"Dunno." Dean paused halfway through tugging his boots on, expression thoughtful. "We got, um. It was interrupted."

"Interrupted?"

"Yup," Dean said as he stood up and lightly tapped the toes of his boots against the wooden floorboards. He looked over at Sam. "Tell you one thing, though--whatever I've been dreaming about? It's real. It exists somewhere outside of my own head."

Sam looked shocked, but before he could ask Dean to explain, there was a knock at the door. With barely a pause, the door opened, and their guide from the night before poked her head into the room.

"You ready?" she asked. "Mother is ready to see you."

=

The room they were ushered into was small and cluttered, with small charms and trinkets draped across every available surface. There was a plush couch shoved against a wall, and a round table in the center of the room. A stocky, dark-skinned woman with protective charms adorning her messily tied back hair sat opposite to the couch. She studied Sam and Dean with bright black eyes.

"Don't just stare," she said, and pointed at the couch. "C'mon, sit, get comfortable."

Once they'd obeyed, she leaned forward and perched her elbows on the table, cupping her chin in one hand as she continued to study them. "So," she said. "Which of you demanded I speak to the refugees last night?"

Sam fidgeted, and then said in a weak voice, "I, ah, wouldn't have said I 'demanded' it, but…"

"Easy, boy, easy," the woman said with a quiet bout of laughter. "I was just askin'. You ain't in trouble."

She leaned back again, looking at Sam with sharp eyes. "I ain't surprised you're the one with the heart as big and open as our desert," she said. She held a hand out over the table. "Name's Missouri. I'm head of the Moseley clan and also the lead dowser."

Sam stared at Missouri's hand, hesitant. Missouri saw his expression and huffed with impatience. "Ain't no use tryin' to hide, boy. Like knows like, if they're strong enough."

When Sam still didn't take her hand, Missouri's expression softened a little. "Don't be scared," she said, firm but kind. "I just want a read from you. No judgin' or nothin' like that."

Dean watched Sam, ready to jump to his brother's aid if necessary, but Sam reached for Missouri's hand without further prompting, mouth drawn into a tight line. Missouri's eyes widened when their skin made contact, but she didn't speak. Sam dropped her hand after only a second or two, and both he and Missouri flexed their fingers to rid themselves of any aftershocks.

"Can't say I've ever met one like you," Missouri said. "You're… different."

"That doesn't mean you have to treat him different," Dean said, bristling. "I ain't allowing it."

"Dean," Sam said quietly. "I'm fine."

"Protective, ain't ya?" Missouri said, studying Dean with amusement. "Smooth your feathers down. I said I ain't gonna judge, and I meant it."

"Thank you," Sam said, head bowed a little. "There aren't many who don't think, you know."

Missouri snorted. "What, that you actually won't steal their magical essence? I ain't surprised. For all those educated folk out there at those magic schools, none of them are actually _smart_."

"They let me enroll, at least," Sam said. His face was faintly lined with pain. "But looking back at it, I don't know if they let me in so they could teach me, or if--"

"They just thought you were a threat, and wanted to pin you down just in case you were too strong," Missouri finished for him. "Or just lock you away like a beast in a menagerie."

Sam sighed, his shoulders slumping as the tension ran out of him. "Yeah."

As Dean watched Sam relax under Missouri's quiet acceptance, he felt himself smile faintly. When Sam had been accepted to one of the most prestigious magic universities on the eastern coast, he had been excited to go. But each time Dean managed to visit him, Sam seemed more and more miserable. Dean had tried his best to cheer up his little brother, taking Sam to explore the city at the foot of the university or the wilderness beyond. Once, they waded amongst the tide pools at the nearby shore, Sam pointing out the fish he recognized and rattling off everything he knew about them. When they came across a small fish which could shift its colors to match its surroundings, Sam had quietly told Dean that his magic made him like that fish. As strange and natural as that fish. The smile he'd given Dean was both content and sorrowful. It made Dean want to burn that cursed judgmental university to the ground and take Sam home, where he was accepted without question, strange magic and all. Sam left of his own volition two years later, but the weight of his peers' prejudices still hung across his shoulders like lead.

Dean saw that Missouri's words helped lift away some of that weight, and Dean appreciated it more than he could say. Anyone willing to accept Sam as he was, in Dean's opinion, was a good person. Judging by the expression on Sam's face, he was thinking the same thing.

"They're just full'a hot air," Missouri said with a small snort of derision. "'Sides, I bet they were jealous. I've never met a magic user, myself included, who didn't wish they could use a different element than the one they were gifted with."

Sam smiled weakly. "With how they treated me, sometimes, I can't exactly disagree."

"See?" Missouri shrugged a little. "Way I see it, you're like a pocket of water out in this here desert: rare and all the more precious for it."

Sam mumbled a thank you and looked away, a faint blush marking his cheeks. Dean grinned and clapped Sam on the back. He was always telling Sam that being different didn't make him a freak, but sometimes Sam was thickheaded about those sorts of things, especially if they were related to him.

"Now," Missouri said, her tone becoming brisk, "that's that. Now we can get on to why you're here."

Dean cleared his throat, glancing at Sam one more time before turning his attention to Missouri. "Rufus sent us to you," he said.

"'Course he did. That man don't know the first thing about desert water. Most don't."

"And you do?" Sam asked, his bashfulness fading as his curiosity resurfaced.

"Yeah." Missouri gave them both a small, crooked smile. "Dowsers have an innate sense of where water is located, and can tell if it's clean enough for drinkin', even before a hole is dug."

"So it's water magic." Sam's brow furrowed. "How come I've never heard of dowsing until now?"

"'Cause it only exists out here," Missouri said, her tone matter of fact instead of arrogant. "Dowsin' was a gift the guardian gave Emmanuel, and it was passed down the generations through his blood. Every dowser alive now has Emmanuel and the guardian to thank for it."

"Wait," Dean said, mind whirling a little from this onslaught of information. "The guardian exists?"

Missouri gave Dean a look that made it clear that she was questioning his intelligence. "Yeah."

"And you, what." Dean made a small, vague gesture with his hands as he searched for the right words. "You worship it?"

Missouri threw back her head and laughed. "You serious, boy? D'you see an altar round here? The guardian don't need worship, and it sure don't ask for it."

"But--"

"You met Ellen, right?" Missouri directed this at Sam, who started at the abrupt attention. "She give you her lorebook? A tome?"

Sam nodded.

"You finish it yet?"

Grimacing, Sam shook his head.

"There you go." Missouri folded her arms across her chest and leaned back in her seat. "Hold your tongue on the guardian until you've read the book cover to cover. I ain't hearing anything from you two until then."

Thoroughly chastised, Sam and Dean nodded their understanding. "Let's skip that whole thing, then," Dean said. "What can you tell us about this drought--"

Missouri hushed him, cutting a hand sharply through the air. "Don't call it that, 'less you want a panic all the way to the mountains," she said, expression stern. "Droughts are as good as a death sentence out here, and I don't want that news spreadin'."

"But you can't say it's not a," at Missouri's glare, Dean corrected his next words, "not that."

"No," Missouri said after a pause. "I can't. But I can tell you that it ain't natural."

"How do you know?" Sam asked.

"Six wells goin' bust at once ain't something that normally happens, for one," Missouri said dryly. "'Sides, when Rufus sent out word about a ghost carriage and disappearin' hunters, I did my own diggin'."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked.

Missouri was quiet, fingers playing with a silver bracelet she wore. It was heavily engraved with runes used for protection and guidance. "I sent my daughter out there," she said. "Eloise. You met her."

Sam nodded. "She let us into the house, right?"

"Yeah," Missouri said, and sighed. "She's as strong as me, maybe stronger. I was sure that whatever it was dryin' the wells, beast or curse, she could take it."

She tugged on her bracelet. "My Eloise used to have this one's twin," she said. "She came back without it, and a burn where it used to be, plus a bunch of bruises and cuts. She said the bracelet saved her life."

Sam and Dean exchanged identical looks of alarm. "What happened to her?" Sam asked, looking back at Missouri.

"Dunno," Missouri said. Her mouth tightened. "Eloise says she can't remember, and I believe her. But she's been haunted with nightmares ever since she came back. She wakes up every night screamin' or weepin' or both, and that worries me. Worries me bad."

"More than her other injuries?" Sam tilted his head, confused. "I don't understand."

"Dreams are part of the water element," she said. Dean's expression briefly went blank with surprise, but neither Missouri nor Sam noticed. "They ebb and flow like a river, shift like the tide. For my Ellie to have nightmares, well. Reckon her own connection with water must've been badly hurt."

Missouri clasped her hands together to hide their shaking. "I've never heard of somethin' strong enough to do that."

A thread of uneasiness wove its way into Dean's thoughts. Something killing hunters was bad. Something strong enough to mess with a magic user's inherent connection with her element and wipe her memories clean in the process was a thousand times worse. Once more, Dean found himself wondering what he and Sam had stumbled into, out here in the mostly empty desert. And for one, brief, frightening moment, he also wondered if they'd get out of this unscathed.

"So this whole problem clearly isn't natural," Sam said, cutting into the heavy silence. "And we also have no idea what, or who, is causing this."

"It's strong," Dean said. "That's for sure. But yeah, seems like everything else is a big ol' blank."

"Which is why it's your job to figure it out." Missouri stood and shuffled towards the door. "We got a big library here, with stuff about any monster or spell you can think of. We've been through it a couple of times since this mess started, but fresh eyes wouldn't hurt."

Dean groaned quietly. If there was anything he hated most about hunting, it was all the research that went into identifying whatever mystery monster they happened to encounter. Good thing Sam never complained about doing the bulk of the reading, or else they'd never make progress. "I guess it won't hurt to look up the desert's history, maybe see if this has happened before," he told Sam.

"And you may want to look up stuff 'bout quicksilver," Missouri put in.

"Quicksilver?" Sam repeated. "Why?"

"Ellie's been screaming about it, these last few days," Missouri said, after a small pause. "Figured it could be something."

Before either Sam or Dean could comment on that, Missouri opened the door leading into the hall and called for Eloise. After a moment footsteps could be heard further down the hall, and Missouri turned back to the brothers. "Ellie will show you the library. Spend all the time you need, and tell Ellie if you need anythin' from me."

Sam and Dean nodded just as Eloise stepped into view. Missouri told her what was going on, and with a small gesture for the brothers to follow, Eloise walked back down the hall. Dean immediately went after her, but Sam hesitated. "Miss Missouri?"

Missouri tilted her head, charms quietly clicking with the motion. "Hmm?"

"If you don't mind me asking," Sam said, "how did you know about the book Ellen gave us? Neither of us said anything about it."

The smile Missouri gave him was small and mysterious. "You're meant to be here, you and your brother," she said. "And Ellen was meant to give the book to you. That's all there is to it."

=

Missouri hadn't been kidding about the extensiveness of her clan's library. It was housed in a huge room, and all available wall space was covered in tall bookshelves full to bursting with books. Dean stared at it all, mouth slightly agape, but Sam rushed forward into the room, scanning the shelves, excited and in his element. When he started pulling down books, Dean was quick to step up and help carry whatever Sam grabbed.

By the time they settled into a pair of well-loved armchairs and started reading, they had a stack of books three feet high sitting in between them, covering subjects from history to magical theory to elemental lore. Sam cracked open the topmost book and started reading without comment. Dean was a little slower to start, and once he did he periodically eyed the remaining books like they would attack if they weren't vigilantly watched.

The next few hours passed like that, both of them making slow progress on the stack of chosen books. Two other piles had emerged as they read - one for potentially useful information, the other for unhelpful books. The former was much shorter than the latter.

"This ain't going how I'd hoped," Dean said, shutting the history book he'd been paging through with a tired sigh. "I can't find a single hint of a drought before this one. It hasn't even _rained_ since the desert was settled. And the worst conflict I've read about was a dispute over who owned a herd of cows, two hundred years ago."

Sam closed his own book, looking strained. "I know," he said. "The magic end of things hasn't been much more helpful. Even the stuff I've found about quicksilver hasn't been anything I didn't already know."

"Remind me what quicksilver is, again?" Dean asked, trying for nonchalance. Sam caught on, though, and slanted a grin at Dean.

"Are you telling me I know something my all-knowing big brother doesn't? I'm shocked."

Dean considered throwing the book he still held at Sam's head, but restrained himself. Barely. "Don't get used to it," he said, glaring at Sam. "Can you just tell me what it is?"

"All right, all right. It moves and acts like water, but it's a metal," Sam said, sobering a little. He fingered the spine on the book in his hands as he spoke. "Not much is known about it, even at the universities. It's difficult to study."

"Really?" Dean leaned forward in his seat, curious. "Why's that?"

Sam shrugged. "Quicksilver's like a slow-acting poison. If you keep getting it on your skin, keep breathing it in, sooner or later you'll go insane."

A chill tripped up Dean's spine, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "A _metal_ can do that?"

"Yup."

"Wow." Dean flopped back into his chair, stunned. "No wonder Ellie's having nightmares about it. That quicksilver shit sounds nasty."

"It _is_ nasty," Sam said, mouth drawn into a tight line. "But it's also very rare. I'm surprised Eloise even knows about it."

"Well, you found information about it in some of these books, right? Maybe she's read 'em."

Sam glanced down at the books scattered around them. "Yeah," he said. He didn't sound entirely convinced. "That's possible, I guess."

"Glad you agree." Dean stood up and stretched, working the stiffness out of his back and legs. "With that mystery solved, I'm gonna take a break. Wanna join me?"

Sam shook his head. "These books are from only a part of the library," he said, indicating the piles they'd made. "I want to get through all of this before I stop today."

"Suit yourself. I'll check on you in a few hours, yeah?"

Sam hummed, already focused on their remaining unread books. Shaking his head in a mixture of exasperation and amusement, Dean left him to it. Sam would emerge from his research when he was good and ready.

=

The next few days passed in a similar fashion, with Sam holed up in the library and Dean doing what he could to keep himself busy. He thoroughly cleaned both his and Sam's weapons, reorganized their packs, and tended to the horses. He made sure to also check on Sam every now and then, reminding Sam to eat and sleep when he did. Sometimes Dean would stay around for an hour two to help with the research, but he left the bulk of it to Sam. Out of the two of them, he was the one with the inclination towards reading until his eyes were apt to fall out.

Dean didn't dream of Castiel on the first or second night. He thought he heard Castiel that first night, faintly calling Dean's name into the void of his dream, but each time Dean tried to look for him, flames blocked his way. He had awoken from that dream feeling shaken and frustrated, but after that his sleep went undisturbed.

On their third day at the Moseley house, a rider arrived on a sweat-streaked horse a little before sunset. The boy looked as harried as his horse, and he was let into the house without further question. Later, when Dean asked Eloise about it, she told him that the boy had come to see Missouri. She brushed him off when he asked for more information, saying he would have to wait until the next day. So Dean decided to turn in for the night, despite the curiosity itching under his skin.

He thought it'd take him a long while to fall asleep, what with all the questions lingering in his mind, but he felt drowsy the moment his head hit the pillow. He managed to pull the blankets over himself, and then he easily dropped into sleep.

=

"Thank Mother," Castiel said before Dean was even fully aware he was dreaming. "I didn't think I'd be able to contact you tonight."

"Well, you did," Dean said. The dream desert was different, he saw. The circle of plainsgrass that usually surrounded him was smaller. A single step would have Dean standing in desert instead of plains. The sight made him uneasy, but he ignored it as best he could. "Any reason you wouldn't have succeeded?"

Castiel shrugged. "I've been having… difficulties, recently. The last two times I reached for your dreams, they slipped out of my grasp."

"Why? Was something wrong?" On closer inspection, Castiel looked tired. His skin was paler than Dean remembered, with dark circles stamped under his eyes. His face was drawn, and it appeared that it was taking Castiel a good amount of effort to stand up straight. "By all that breathes, man, what happened to you?"

A small smile briefly crossed Castiel's face, and he waved off Dean's concern with a limp wave of his hand. "It's not of import," he said. "I'm here to talk to you about something else."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What's more important than your own wellbeing?"

"The desert." Castiel scanned the land around them with dull, tired eyes. "Its wellbeing comes before mine. Always."

"Why?" Dean asked, shocked. He understood being loyal, but not when it was in regards to a huge wasteland where it was a constant struggle to survive.

Castiel glared at Dean, eyes as hard as sapphires. "I can hear your thoughts while we're here, Dean Winchester. So I suggest you be careful about what you think about my desert."

Dean reckoned that that was meant to intimidate him, but his curiosity won out instead. " _Your_ desert?" he repeated.

"Never mind that," Castiel said, his brush-off much more frantic this time around. Dean couldn't be sure - reading Castiel was too difficult - but he thought that Castiel had made himself nervous with what he'd said. Dean didn't have time to pursue that possibility, though, because Castiel was already moving the conversation along.

"I don't have time for idle chatter," he said, words clipped. "And neither do you."

Dean blinked, all questions briefly forgotten. "What d'you mean?"

"Things are progressing faster than I surmised." Castiel's mouth was pressed into a thin line, and his eyes were troubled. "The wells that've dried out are the small stones that cause a rockslide in the eastern mountains. Soon the true disaster will begin, and it will be impossible to stop once it reaches that point. Do you understand?"

Under different circumstances, Dean would've scoffed at Castiel's use of metaphor. He preferred when things were said in a clear, straightforward fashion. But what Castiel was telling him was far too serious to make light of, so all Dean could do was swallow past his suddenly tight throat and nod.

The smile Castiel gave to Dean was small and strained, but genuine. "Good," he said. Casting his gaze southward, he said, "I'll make this brief. I don't wish to experience the dream ending like it did last time."

"Same here." Dean found himself also looking south, Castiel's wariness affecting him. "Go ahead and shoot. I'm listenin'."

"The problem is much worse than you know it to be," Castiel said, barely pausing for breath as he spoke. "Like I said, time is very short. Head southeast as soon as you are able. Find the witch. Stopping her will stop all of it."

Dean shook his head, the deluge of words almost too rapid for him to fully absorb. "Wait, wait," he said. "You gotta explain. What witch? What's she up to? _How_ do we stop her?"

"No time to explain." Even as Castiel said that, Dean heard thunder rumbling near the southern horizon. Lifting his voice over the rising wind, he said, "Go southeast. The answers will be there. Just hurry. For all that breathes, you must hurry!"

There were hundreds of questions on the tip of Dean's tongue, but before he could voice any of them, Castiel made a pushing gesture, fingers splayed wide, in Dean's direction. An unseen force shoved at Dean's chest, and he fell backwards, dream fading into nothingness around him. The last thing he saw was Castiel, standing tall and alone, facing the approaching storm.

=

Dean's sharp gasp echoed against his bedroom walls as he sat up, heart pounding and body braced for a fight. That last sight of Castiel, alone before an encroaching mass of dark clouds, still lingered in his mind's eye. It didn't start fading until Dean pressed his fingers against his closed eyes and rubbed the sleep from them. Even then, Dean knew that the dream would occupy his waking thoughts for a long while, whether he liked it or not.

Sighing quietly, Dean rose to get dressed. It was still dark out and the house, usually humming with the large Moseley clan's many activities, was quiet. Dean tried to preserve the stillness, leaving his room and heading next door to Sam's on light, careful feet. A quick knock and check inside showed that Sam wasn't in his room, and Dean moved on to the library, muttering to himself as he went. Hopefully Sam managed to sleep a little bit the night before.

Sam didn't say anything when Dean entered the library. He simply lifted an eyebrow at Dean's presence before returning his attention to his book. Grateful for the lack of questions, Dean sat down, pulled a book off the new stack Sam had made, and went to work.

Dawn came and went. Dean heard footsteps pass the library door every now and then, but it didn't pull his attention away from what he was reading. Finally, a few hours past dawn, Eloise came into the library without knocking, eyes wide and bright with nervous energy. When both brothers looked up, she took a settling breath and passed on her news.

The rider from the night before was awake, and Sam and Dean needed to hear what he had to say.

=

Missouri was talking softly with the rider, but she looked up immediately when Sam and Dean came into the room. The rider turned out to be a boy who was no more than sixteen. He was tall and lanky, with dark hair and wide, nervous eyes. He watched Sam and Dean like a deer poised for flight. Missouri must have noticed that, because she wrapped an arm around the boy's thin shoulders and squeezed gently.

"Don't worry none," she said. "These are the people I told you bout. They're here to help. You ain't in trouble, okay?"

The boy stayed silent, and still looked nervous, but he managed to nod. Missouri smiled at him before looking up at Sam and Dean. She said, "This here's Samandriel. He's from a village a mile or two east from Deepwell. He's got, well. He's got news. Let him tell you what it is. I don't wanna muck up the details."

Samandriel fidgeted as everyone's attention shifted to him, and he kept his eyes fixed on the floor. After a moment of silence, he said in a low voice, "They sent me 'cause I'm the fastest rider. I was gonna come a couple days ago but somethin'… Somethin' happened."

"What?" Sam asked gently when Samandriel went quiet again. "What happened?"

Samandriel lifted his head, shifting his gaze so that it was fixed on Sam. His eyes were no longer full of fear, but instead shone with awe. "A miracle," he said, voice still low but with a newfound intensity. "A miracle happened, that's what."

The silence that met Samandriel's word was immense. Dean looked at Sam, who seemed as lost as Dean felt. "Okay, Dean said slowly. "A miracle, huh? How bout you describe it for us?"

"Start from the beginning, Samandriel," Missouri said. "Just like you did for me an' Eloise, yeah? And these boys will be calmer than we were, promise."

Samandriel nodded and closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts. Then, after taking a deep breath, he began to speak.

"My village stayed put when our well busted. We got water stored, and figured help would come sooner or later. There's all those stories bout the guardian savin' people who're stranded and dyin' without water, y'know?

"But no one came, our water was runnin' low, and folks' tempers were gettin' ugly. Ma was nervous and wanted to go to Deepwell, but Pa wasn't budgin'. So we waited."

There was a glass of water sitting on the table in front of Samandriel, and he paused to drink from it. After a few long swallows, he put his glass back down and continued.

"That's when word came from Deepwell. They were lookin' for a fast rider to take a message to Fallowfield. Not a lot of us know our way round a horse, in the south. We ain't horse people. But I got the knack, so I volunteered."

"Was the message about the miracle you mentioned earlier?" Sam asked.

"Nah." Samandriel waved away the question like it was a pesky fly. "It was about Deepwell's water. Their well is half empty, and gettin' emptier."

"What?" Sam yelped out at the same time Dean exclaimed, "And you're only tellin' us this _now_?"

"It don't matter anymore," Samandriel said with a shrug. "S'why I didn't start hollerin' about it last night when I got here."

"And why ain't it important?" Dean asked, indignant in the wake of this kid's nonchalance. "How is an empty well in a desert city _not_ important?"

"'Cause the water witch came," Samandriel said. His eyes were wide and fervent, and he was smiling. "The witch is wanderin' the desert. She fixed our village's well like it was nothin'. She'll do the same with Deepwell, and everyone else. The water witch will save the desert. The witch'll save us all."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A departure. Building pressure. A fight. A fire.

Dean watched as Samandriel, led by Eloise, left the room. As soon as the door shut behind them, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I don’t know what to make of this mess," he said.

After claiming that the so-called water witch was the miraculous answer to the drought, Samandriel hadn’t had any other information to add. When pressed, he'd said that the witch revived their well by using a spell "that made a lotta light and a lotta ruckus," but that was all. Sam and Dean decided to end their questions there.

"What do you think about this witch?" Sam asked, frowning. "It could be a dowser."

"It ain't a dowser," Missouri said from her spot on the couch. "No self-respectin' dowser would call themselves a _witch_."

"Could it be a rogue?" Dean asked. "A dowser gone bad?"

Missouri pursed her lips as she thought it over. "It's possible," she said. "Though I ain't heard of a dowser revivin' a well before. We only sense water. We can't control it."

"Sounds like a rogue dowser is unlikely, then," Sam said. He glanced at Dean. "Any other ideas?"

Dean sighed and shook his head. "'Less it's an actual witch, I got nothin'."

Missouri opened her mouth, as if to speak, but snapped it shut a second later. When Dean raised a questioning eyebrow at her, she shook her head. He let it be, even though there was a frown lingering on Missouri's lips and worry in her eyes.

"So what now?" Sam asked, after a beat of silence. "More research? Go back to Salvation and ask Rufus if he's found anything?"

Last night's dream flashed through Dean's mind, as quick and vibrant as lightning, and Dean found himself asking, "What about ridin' southeast?"

"Towards all the trouble?" Sam looked like Dean had suggested that they ride straight off a cliff. "Why in the name of all that breathes would we do that?"

Dean shrugged, trying for nonchalance. He could feel Missouri's sharp eyes on him as he said, "Call it intuition."

Sam's frown deepened. "Research hasn't brought up anything useful yet," he said. "We'd be going in blind."

"We'll make it up as we go." Dean's calm became easier to fake, and he grinned crookedly at Sam. "Ain't the first time we've done this, and we're still in one piece. More or less."

"Yeah, more or less," Sam repeated quietly. After a moment, his expression smoothed out and he sighed. "Yeah, okay, let's go check it out."

Dean bounced on the balls of his feet. Now that they had a course of action plotted out, the urge to just _go_ already itched across his skin, making him restless. "Great," he said. "If we hurry and pack, we can get goin' before noon--"

"Easy there, boy," Missouri said, raising a staying hand in Dean's direction. "You ain't goin' anywhere just yet."

"What?" Dean stared incredulously at Missouri. "Why not?"

"It'll take two days to reach the next water source between here and Deepwell." Missouri gave Dean a stern look. "If y'all got any sense in your heads, you'll stay put 'til sundown."

Dean sputtered out a protest, but Sam took the delay in stride. "Great," he said, speaking over Dean. "That gives me a little more time with your library."

At Missouri's nod, Sam left the room, his steps quick and eager. When he was out of sight, Missouri turned back to Dean, eyebrows in a silent question. Shaking his head, Dean stomped out of the room, muttering darkly under his breath. He'd have to find something to occupy his time until dusk.

=

By the time the sun was dipping below the western horizon, Dean had rearranged and packed their saddlebags, groomed the horses, and inspected their tack and shoes. He was more than ready to ride out, and he glanced at the dimming sky with anticipation.

Missouri had Dean and Sam join the rest of the clan for supper, wanting them well fed before they began the next leg of their journey. Dean had thought he would be lost amongst the chatter around the huge round dining table, but he soon found himself drawn into a debate with Missouri's two oldest nephews about firearms. Sam, in the meantime, was talking with Eloise. The noise of the clan drowned out their conversation, and Dean could only guess at what they were discussing. Probably something about magic. Whatever it was, it kept the two of them engrossed for the rest of the meal.

The sun was completely set when dinner was done and cleaned up. Missouri gave Dean and Sam her blessing to leave, as well as the extra water they would need to survive the road between Fallowfield and the nearest village. She and Eloise stood on their front porch and watched Sam and Dean ride out. They waved in farewell, and the brothers returned the gesture before the dusky shadows swallowed the Moseley house. Turning forward, Sam and Dean urged their horses down the road and into the night.

=

The ride through Fallowfield and onto the road pointed southeast was quiet, with the lanterns attached to their saddles the only visible point of light for miles. The stars slowly wheeled across the sky, marking the passage of the night. After their first few hours, the desert's dark stillness got to Dean, and he started quietly whistling songs he learned while growing up. Sam remained silent, eyes always studying the road ahead.

They made camp a little before dawn, just a few yards off the road. Sam offered to keep watch, since he wanted to make more progress on Ellen's book.

"The stuff in Missouri's library, um," he said, looking sheepish, "distracted me."

Dean snorted. "Of course it did, you bookworm," he said. He flopped down on his bedroll and angled his hat so it was shading his eyes. "I ain't gonna fight you, I'm fit to pass out."

If Sam responded, Dean didn't hear it. He drifted off with little effort. His sleep was uninterrupted and dreamless until Sam roused him a few hours later.

=

They broke camp at sunset, and rode until they saw a handful of lights on the horizon. Not wanting to scare the villagers by appearing in the night, the brothers made camp and slept until dawn. They set out once more when the sun started to peek above the eastern mountains.

Dean was glad they'd waited until dawn. This village was in worse repair than the ones between Salvation and Fallowfield, with most of the houses looking like they were a breath away from collapsing. The villagers eyed them with blatant distrust, and when Sam moved to restock their waterskins from the village's well, the small crowd watching them began to grumble and press closer. Without needing to discuss it, Sam and Dean didn't linger after their water was replenished, and rode back out into the desert without hesitation.

Dean let out a harsh breath once the village was a couple of miles behind them. "I thought we were gonna get jumped," he said. "What do you think _that_ was all about?"

"Maybe they're not used to seeing travelers," Sam said with a shrug. "Or maybe…"

"What is it?" Dean said, after Sam didn't continue his thought.

Sam shook his head a little, his expression troubled. "It's not likely," he said, "but it's possible that rumors of the drought have reached this far north."

Dean tightened his grip on Baby's reins. "So they're getting protective of their water."

"Yeah."

"Great." Dean sighed. "Suppose they make us barter for water in the next village? Or refuse to part with it at all?"

Sam shrugged again, the gesture carrying an air of helplessness. "I guess we'll figure it out when it happens."

" _If_ it happens. I wanna hope we can get to Deepwell without meetin' any trouble."

"With how things are going, Dean, I wouldn't get your hopes up too much."

=

The night found them stopping at a rundown waypoint. Dean, relieved that they didn't have to deal with more unfriendly villagers, couldn't care less about how the waypoint's condition. Sam only raised his eyebrows critically and made sure to build their camp far away from the ramshackle lean-to and the crooked fence posts. The well, despite its appearance, was clean, and Sam and Dean eagerly filled up on its water.

They didn't stand watch that night, and instead set up the wards so they could both recover from traveling in the heat of the day. Even with the one broken ward (which Dean had claimed he'd dropped the other day when Sam asked), the others could still function. They simply had to make camp a little bit smaller to accommodate.

In the morning, Sam suggested that they wait until dusk before continuing. Dean immediately rejected the idea.

"But why?" Sam asked. "We can move faster at night, when it's cooler."

"Yeah, but." Dean paused, momentarily at a loss. How could he explain his urgency without telling Sam about Castiel? While Dean was sure that Castiel was not something his dreaming mind had conjured up, he also couldn't completely guarantee that Castiel _wasn't_. And he didn't need Sam thinking he was mad, following the words of a dream-creature.

Sam was watching him, waiting for his reasons, a frown beginning to form at the corners of his mouth. Clearing his throat, Dean said, "We can see if anything's comin' at us better in daylight. Makes for safer travel."

When Sam remained quiet, Dean added, "You can read while we ride in the day, too. You'd be making progress in two different ways."

"I suppose that's true," Sam said, words slow and thoughtful. He glanced at the road before them, then at the sun's position in the sky, before sighing and saying, "All right. Let's head out, then."

Dean's face split into a wide grin, and he was quick to climb into Baby's saddle. "I knew you'd listen to logic, Sammy."

"Yeah, yeah." Sam grumbled a little as he swung into his horse's saddle and fixed Dean with a stern look. "No complaining about the heat, though."

"Me? Complain? Never!"

=

Silence swept over them as they rode, as neither of them wanted to waste energy on words. With the flat, unchanging landscape around them, Dean's only real impression of the passing hours was the angle of his shadow and Sam's progress with his reading. By the time their shadows stretched, long and spidery, towards the east, Sam had made his way through half of Ellen's book.

They almost rode past the waypoint, as it was little more than a ramshackle stone well jutting out of the earth. Exhausted from traveling during the day, the brothers were more than a little eager to make camp. Dean set up the bedrolls and a started on making a small fire while Sam watered the horses.

"Hey Dean," Sam called, after a few minutes of quiet work. He'd stopped hoisting water out of the well, by the sound of it. "Come look at this."

Dean, who was struggling to make the flint cooperate and spark, looked up. Sam was staring into the well, head cocked to the side. "What is it?" Dean asked. A horrible thought occurred to him, and he stood up from his crouch. "Don't tell me it's tainted."

Sam shook his head, but the motion was slow and distracted. "No, just. Bring a lantern over?"

Curious and more than a little wary, Dean turned his flint to one of their lanterns and got it lit after a few attempts. Armed with its light, Dean carried the lantern over to Sam and the well.

"Hold it a little more out," Sam said, indicating the open space over the well. "Just a bit - there, yeah, hold it there."

Sam stared down into the well's depths, brow furrowed in a thoughtful frown. Dean looked too, but all he saw was darkness. "Should I be seeing something?" he asked.

"Have you noticed the water level in the wells we've seen so far?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. "Not really. I was always just happy to see water, y'know?"

"Yeah, well. Every one we've seen so far has been really full. You could lean in and touch the water with your fingers, if you wanted."

"Okay, and?"

" _And_ ," Sam said, nudging Dean's arm and the lantern a little higher. "What do you see here?"

Dean looked down the well again. He saw a lot of darkness, maybe a hint of the well's roughly built interior, but not much else. Then, after the moment, he realized there _was_ something else: the unsteady flash of light, no bigger than a coin, far down in the well. It was the same gold-yellow as his lantern's light.

"Water," Dean said. "It's way down there, but it's water."

"Yeah," Sam said, "but like you said, it's _way_ down there. I noticed it while I was pulling water. This isn't usual."

"Right, because you said they're always full," Dean said absently, thinking as he spoke. "So seeing such a low well now probably means--"

Dean looked up sharply at Sam, who watched him with grim resignation. He'd clearly already reached the conclusion Dean just did. Dean leaned back, lowering the lantern so it rested on the top of the well's wall. He took a deep breath, and then let it out in a rush.

"The drought's spreadin'," Dean said. "It's headin' north."

Sam nodded his agreement. With a bitten-off curse, Dean turned away from the well, jaw clenched and hands balled into tight fists. He looked out into the shadowy desert and the endless speckle of stars overhead, working to keep his breaths even. When he finally felt his frustration ebb away, he turned back to face Sam.

"It's spreading," Dean said again. "And we still don't know how, or why."

"I know," Sam said. He looked frustrated, too, glaring a little at the well as he spoke. "This is why I wanted to stay at Missouri's a little longer. Just so we could have all the information we could get."

Dean pointed at the well. "If anything, this shows that we were right to leave when we did. How much water d'you think there'd be here in a couple of days? Or in a week?"

Sam didn't say anything, but his answer was written in the tight lines framing his eyes and mouth. "No," Dean said for him. "And, honestly, this should encourage us to hurry up. I don't wanna be stuck in Deepwell just 'cause our road back north up and dried out on us."

"Yeah," Sam said, voice barely above a whisper. He finally turned away from the well to look at Dean with dark eyes. "Me neither."

"Didn't think so." Stepping back towards Sam, Dean grabbed the lantern and led the way back to their little camp. They'd need all the rest they could get for the days ahead of them.

=

They were back on the road when the sky was barely tinged gray with the impending sunrise. While nothing around them looked any different from the day before, Dean found himself constantly scanning the horizon and the road ahead. Sam had even abandoned his book, staying alert and repeatedly glance back at the road behind them.

Noon came and went, and the hottest part of the day swept over the desert like a thick, suffocating blanket. Sweat beaded on Dean's face, and his shirt, which was made of light cotton in deference to the desert heat, was plastered against his back. Even Baby, who was normally a stalwart girl, had her head lowered and had slowed down her pace without being prompted.

"I know you said I ain't allowed to bitch," Dean said, glance back at Sam, "but I gotta say, if it gets any hotter'n this, I'm gonna melt clean out of my saddle."

Sam didn’t look any better than Dean. He’d tied his hair back into a low horsetail - a practice he usually disliked and avoided - and was fanning himself with his hat. His gelding looked absolutely miserable. “It’s not just you,” Sam said. “It’s definitely a lot hotter than it has been over the last couple weeks.”

“Well I ain’t enjoying it.” Dean paused to swipe an arm across his dripping forehead. “D’you think this is normal for this area?”

“No idea. Missouri had a collection of old almanacs, but I was more focused on water supply, not weather.” Placing his hat back on his head and pulling it low over his eyes, Sam said, “And for the record, this isn’t fun for me, either.”

“I never said it was,” Dean said. He glanced at the remaining waterskins sloshing against his saddle and sighed quietly. As much as he wanted to empty a skin over his head, it wasn’t the best idea. Not until they reached the next water source.

Speaking of. “How far are we from a well or whatever?” Dean asked.

Sam hummed and slid their map out of its carrying tube. Keeping his sweaty fingers away from any lines of ink, he squinted at the desert’s southern region. He muttered to himself as he estimated how far they’d gone, glancing at the sun’s position every now and then for help. “If I’m right,” Sam said slowly. “We should reach a village around sunset.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to snatch a brief look at where the sun sat in the sky. “That’s three or four hours,” he said. He looked back at Sam. “You good to ride ’til then?”

“If it means water, then yes.”

“All right.” Clicking his tongue, Dean urged Baby into a slightly faster pace. He grimaced to himself as he added, “Let’s hope these folk are more welcoming than the last bunch.”

=

They did indeed reach the village by sundown. And they were greeted by a fistfight in progress.

“What even,” Dean muttered as he and Sam stopped their horses at the edge of the village square. Two men were tussling in the center of a crowd, throwing punches and trying to wrestle each other to the ground. The crowd, which seemed to be made up of the entire village, cheered them on.

Sam glanced worriedly at Dean. “Should we stop them?”

Dean’s temper, already worn thin by the long, hot day, was now dangerously close to snapping. Scowling, he gave a short nod and moved Baby onward. He was hot, thirsty, and not in the mood for this bullshit.

A couple of villagers noticed their approach, but didn’t stop urging the fight on. Sam and Dean stopped their horses at the edge of the crowd, and after watching everything for another moment, Dean brought his pinkies to his mouth and let out a loud, piercing whistle. The noise cut through the yelling like a sharp knife through butter, and the crowd’s yelling brokenly came to a halt. All eyes turned to the newcomers, and the fight continued on heedlessly.

Dean huffed out a short breath and rolled his eyes. “Figures,” he muttered. He handed Baby’s reins to Sam before dismounting and stepping forward. Dean expected to meet resistance from the villagers, but they parted easily for him as he walked. And still the fight raged on.

Without giving any sort of verbal warning, Dean grabbed the closest man by the collar and hauled him back from his opponent. The man growled in warning, but Dean just shook him like a dog and shoved him further back. The other fighter straightened up to watch this, his posture loose and relaxed despite his heaving gasps for air. Both were littered with various cuts and bruises.

“When I come to a new place,” Dean said, “I don’t expect to be greeted with a fight. I thought this place didn’t have wildlings. You tryin’ to prove me wrong?”

The man he’d grabbed scowled and said nothing. The other, however, watched Dean with mild interest. “Our practices ain’t any business of yours, newcomer,” he said. “We were settlin’ an issue the usual way, and didn’t need your ‘help.’”

“Issue?” Sam walked up beside Dean, leading both horses behind him. “What sort of issue?”

“You heard [Cain],” the angry fighter bit out. “It ain’t none’a your business!”

“Peace, Jack,” Cain said. “They may just be ridin’ through, but I reckon our problem does have an effect on them.”

Jack glowered at Cain, but fell quiet. Satisfied, Cain crossed his arms over his chest and turned his attention back to Sam and Dean. “Our problem has to do with our well,” he said, pointing to the object in question, which stood behind him.

Sam tilted his head a little. “Is the water low?” he asked.

“I reckon you’ve seen that on the road here,” Can said, sounding unsurprised. “Yeah, it’s gettin’ lower’n usual. We’ve been talkin’ of rationing it off soon.”

Cain jerked his grizzled chin at Jack. “This man here wants us to portion it by how much land a person owns.”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Let me guess: he’s got the most land here,” Dean said. “Selfish son of a bitch.”

“My feelings exactly.” Cain’s jaw tightened. “As village head, I proposed dividing by need, and startin’ to save some as well. Jack refused and started bawlin’ somethin’ awful.”

Jack spluttered. “Bawlin—?!”

Cain regarded him, completely deadpan. “Well, how would _you_ describe the fit you threw?”

“Justified!” Jack pointed out into the crowd. “I have more land than these folk! I’m more important, and I demand that to be recognized!”

“In a desert, with a drought knockin’ at our doors?” Cain shook his head. “Sorry, boy, but you’re equal with the rest of us.”

Jack snarled in outrage and lunged at Cain. Dean was a beat too slow to catch him, but it didn’t matter. Cain deftly dodged the attack, grabbed Jack by the shoulder, and punched him solidly in the nose. Jack went down with the telltale _crack_ of breaking bone. He rolled on the ground and clutched at his face, groaning, the fight instantly gone out of him.

“And that’s how we settle our disputes out here,” Cain told Sam and Dean conversationally. “It’s easier’n dealin’ with some lawman. Cleaner.”

Nudging Jack with the toe of his boot, Cain looked out at the crowd of villagers. “We start equal rations in a few days,” he said. “’Til then, mind how much water you use. Now get.”

The crowd dispersed, most people leaving for their homes. Some lingered, helping Jack to his feet before going, glaring at Cain all the while. Dean guessed that they were Jack’s family and friends.

“You think they’ll give you any more trouble?” Sam asked as they watched Jack and his gang limp away.

Cain snorted. “Jack’s more talk than action. He’ll go home to lick his wounds and whine to whoever’ll listen, but that’ll be it. You’ll see.”

“I’d rather be gone long before that,” Dean muttered.

“Headin’ to Deepwell?” At Sam and Dean’s nods, Cain said, “Stay at my place tonight. Me an’ the missus will take good care of you.”

“No offense,” Dean said, sharing a glance with Sam, “but I think me and my brother would rather restock our water and keep ridin’.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Cain said. “You’d reach Deepwell before sunup. And as you’ve probably seen, it’s safer for strangers out here if they show up in the light instead of in the dark.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair, thinking. He’d rather put this village and its overlaying air of tension behind him as soon as he could. But spending a night surrounded by four walls and a roof didn’t sound too bad, either. And by the hopeful look Sam was giving him, he wasn’t alone in thinking that.

“Reckon you know best,” Dean said. Taking Baby’s reins back from Sam, he tipped his head towards Cain. “Lead on.”

Cain’s house stood at the northernmost edge of the village. It wasn’t enormous and lavish, as Dean expected, but small and solid-looking. The windows were tightly shuttered, though chinks of light escaped from the edges of them. As Cain directed Sam and Dean to the stable in the back, the front door opened, pouring light out into the shadowy street. A woman with dark, loose hair and a thin face lined with worry rushed out of the house and towards Cain.

“I heard what was goin’ on,” she said, cupping Cain’s face in her hands. “Are you well?”

Cain smiled faintly and covered one of the woman’s hands with his own. “I’m all right, Colette,” he said, voice gentle. “No need to fret.”

“Says you,” Colette said with a snort. She used her free hand to tug a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and pressed it against a cut on Cain’s cheekbone that was still oozing blood. “Look at you, all beaten up.”

“I won,” Cain said, his words steady despite Colette’s ministrations. “The village will have its water, and that’s what matters.”

Colette pulled her hands out of Cain’s grasp and lightly tapped his uninjured cheek. “One day you won’t win, you foolish man. What am I gonna do then?”

Cain took Colette’s hands again and squeezed them. His expression had gone soft and loving. Dean felt like he was intruding on something private and looked away. He heard Sam shift his feet, boots scratching across the dirt, and then clear his throat. Cain looked up at the sound, expression sobering once more. Colette also turned to look, and smiled as she studied the brothers.

“What’s this?” she asked. She smiled teasingly at Cain. “You pickin’ up strays?”

Cain shook his head. “They’re just passin’ through, darlin’.”

“Cain was kind enough to offer us a place to stay the night,” Sam said. He held out his hand. “I’m Sam, and he’s Dean, my brother.”

Colette shook Sam’s hand, and then Dean’s when he offered it up. “I’m Colette, Cain’s wife,” she said, still smiling. “Though I reckon you already guessed that.”

“I reckon we did.” Dean tapped the brim of his hat and bowed his head, returning Colette’s smile. “Still a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

Colette laughed delightedly. “What polite young men!” She looked at Cain, who’d wrapped an arm around her waist as they were all exchanging introductions. “If my husband thinks y’all are good boys, you’re more than welcome here. C’mon in. Y’all look like you could use a place to rest for a spell.”

=

After a simple but filling dinner of fruits and dried meat, everyone settled in the sitting room to talk. It took up the southern half of the house, and was filled with comfortable chairs and one large sofa. Two tall bookshelves sat between the room’s two windows, and Dean guessed that this room got a lot of sunlight during the day. Now, to make up for the encroaching darkness of the night, lanterns threw out light from each corner of the room.

“I still can’t believe Jack went so far as to fight you,” Colette said as she set a tray with a pitcher of ale on a low table. Once everyone had a drink in their hand, she sat next to Cain on the couch. “As much as he complains, he and his folk have always been spineless.”

“They used to be spineless,” Cain said, softly correcting her. “He’s been a changed man since he and his son went on that hunt for the carriage.”

Sam and Dean looked over at that. “Carriage?” Sam repeated. “Do you mean the ghost carriage?”

“It’s a foolish excuse of a rumor,” Cain said darkly, “but yes. They went lookin’ for it in the east, past Deepwell.”

Dean sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What happened?”

Colette gave Cain a nervous look, but he was quick to wrap an arm around her shoulders and give her a reassuring squeeze. “They came back claiming they found it,” he said. “And, on top of that, it’s being driven by the so-called new guardian.”

“A new guardian?” Dean frowned, and asked, “What happened to the old one?”

Cain shrugged. “Dunno. But this new fella gave both Jack and his son some sort of ‘magic water’ and then told Jack that he was a very important man. The Creator picked him out for great things, apparently.”

Dean gaped at Cain, and Sam raised his eyebrows. “That sounds almost blasphemous,” Sam said.

“I know.” Cain nodded a little. “He’s been told as much, but he ain’t inclined to care. He’s also taken to makin’ ridiculous demands, as you saw today. Says it’s because he’s more important than all the rest of us put together.”

Dean shook his head and leaned back into his chair. “Sounds like someone’s ego’s gotten a little too big,” he said. “Is the rest of his posse like that?”

Colette was quick to shake her head. “His wife, Emily, isn’t,” she said. “She came round the other day to tell me her worries. Plenty of women come to the headman’s wife to do that. Anyway, she said that Jack has changed in a way that’s startin’ to scare her. And he’s spread it to both his brothers and his closest friends. Emily told me they meet an’ talk a lot, and she’s worried about what they might be plottin’.”

“I ain’t,” Cain said. He squeezed Colette’s shoulders again and gave Sam and Dean an even look. “He tries anythin’ like messin’ with everyone’s livelihood again, and I’ll put him down for good.”

That sounded all well and good, but Colette looked more concerned than reassured, and that was hard to ignore. Dean shared a look with Sam, who looked both thoughtful and worried. It seemed that out of the four of them, Cain was the only one completely sure that Jack was no more than an idle threat. And Cain didn’t seem likely to think otherwise any time soon.

“Well,” Cain said, standing. “It’s gettin’ late, and we’re gonna be gettin’ up early. I’ll set up a couple cots for you boys, and then we can all turn in.”

Dean and Sam nodded, watching Cain leave the sitting room for the other half of the house. Colette stayed where she was, looking at Dean and Sam instead of her husband. Her eyes were dark and somber.

“I hate to be too forward,” she said, after a beat of silence, “but are y’all hunters?”

Sam and Dean tensed. “What makes you say that?” Sam asked, trying to force some nonchalance into his words.

“A bunch rode through our village, a few months past. A couple even stayed the night here. You have the same look about you as they did.” Colette tilted her head slightly, giving them both a wan smile. “You boys ain’t in trouble, I promise.”

“Oh,” Dean said, blinking. His shoulders relaxed the slightest bit. “Then what’re you asking for?”

“To see if you could help,” Colette said. “Cain might think different, but I believe that Jack is dangerous. Not just Jack, either. This is bigger’n some power struggle in a nameless village. It’s bigger’n us. Maybe as big as our whole desert.”

She shivered and hugged herself tightly, her face pale and drawn. “I believe that. All the way down to my bones, I believe that.”

Chills traveled down Dean’s spine, but he kept his voice steady as he asked, “And how does us being hunters fit into that?”

“Because you can help.” Colette met Dean’s eyes squarely. “That ghost carriage started this. It must have. And who’s better for trackin’ down a rogue ghost than a couple of hunters?”

=

The conversation ended shortly after that. Colette got up to look for bedding, and Cain got Sam and Dean to help him set up the cots in northeastern room of the house. It only took a few minutes before the cots were up, and Cain and Colette were bidding them good night. The lanterns were snuffed out, and the empty silence of the night fell over the house. Dean, who was exhausted with the day that just passed, was more than happy to settle back on his cot and close his eyes.

“Do you think it’s possible?” Sam whispered into the room.

Dean grunted and lifted his head. While Cain and Colette had the northwestern bedroom to themselves, the wall dividing the two rooms was thin, and Dean didn’t want to run the risk of waking up their hosts. Once he determined that everything was still quiet, he sighed and rolled over to face Sam. “Is what possible?” he asked.

“That a ghost can do all of this.” Sam was lying on his back, and Dean could see his shadowy profile staring up at the ceiling. “Cause a spreading drought, cause village infighting and hostility…”

“I dunno, Sammy,” Dean said. “Personally, I don’t think it’s a ghost.”

“You don’t? Then what do you think it is?”

“Remember the witch Samandriel was going on about?”

Sam pushed himself up on an elbow, staring down at Dean. “You think the witch has something to do with the ghost carriage?”

“Or they’re the same thing,” Dean said with a shrug that was lost to the room’s darkness.

That same darkness hid the frown Sam was doubtlessly sending Dean’s way. “What makes you say that?” he asked.

“Because—“ Dean stopped short. He was about to say that Castiel had only mentioned a witch, not a ghost, so Dean’d figured that maybe the witch was somehow attached to the rumors of the carriage. But Dean was still hesitant to bring his dreams up with Sam. Instead, he rolled over so he could study the ceiling. “S’just a hunch,” he said, “that’s all.”

Sam was still sitting up, and Dean could feel Sam’s eyes on him. After a few breaths, he heard Sam lay back down on his cot. “Okay,” he said, with a quiet sigh.

“Hey,” Dean said abruptly, wanting to change the subject. “How’re you doing on that book Ellen gave us?”

“Oh, I actually meant to tell you,” Sam said, his excitement still audible despite his low tone. “I found a couple more mentions of the guardian.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to sit up, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. One time was a story about how it healed a disease that nearly wiped out Deepwell. The next story was about how it ‘honored’ Emmanuel, the first dowser, when he died.”

“‘Honored’?” Dean’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“It didn’t really explain. But Dean,” Sam said, as he shifted to look over at Dean again, “everything I’ve read so far paints the guardian as caring and loyal to the desert.”

Dean hummed. “So what’s this whole ’new guardian’ mess Cain told us about?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like the sound of it. At all.”

The sound of floorboards creaking in the other bedroom cut the conversation short, as both brothers scramble to settle back on their cots. After a few, long minutes of silence, Dean breathed out what he’d meant to say earlier.

“I don’t like it much, either.”

=

Castiel was waiting for Dean when he fell asleep, but there was no desert surrounding them. They floated, instead, in a dark, endless void. Castiel was gaunt, and looked even more tired than the last time Dean saw him. When he saw Dean watching him, he smiled the faintest bit. But before either person could say anything, the sound of thunder rolled through the nothingness. Flickering red light came to life behind Dean, and Castiel flinched away from it. He hissed and shielded his eyes, and for a moment it seemed like his form flickered, from man to something much larger to man again. Dean turned to look, and then the dream suddenly shattered to pieces all around him.

=

Dean sat up with a strangled gasp, nearly knocking foreheads with Sam in the process. Sam leaned back from where he’d been crouched over Dean and watched as Dean rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

“Sam,” Dean mumbled, “what—“

“Cain’s got company,” Sam said, tilting his head towards the front of the house. That was when Dean realized that the thundering he’d heard in his dream had actually been someone banging a fist against Cain’s door. He also saw the hint of flickering light leaking through the shutters. When Dean looked back at Sam, his jaw was clenched.

“Think he could use some help?” Dean asked. Sam nodded, and both brothers scrambled for weapons. When they both had one firearm and at least one blade apiece, they headed towards the front door.

The door was wide open, and Cain stood on his front porch, facing a large crowd of people. Some carried torches, and others carried blades. At the head of the group, glaring squarely at Cain, was Jack.

“I’m only gonna tell y’all one more time,” Cain said, voice barely above a growl. “Get off my property now, and there ain’t gonna be any blood.”

Jack laughed, a rusty caw of a sound, and some of his followers joined in. “Are you blind, Cain?” he said. “There’s twenty of us and one of you. Unless you’re gonna call lightning down from the sky, I reckon we’ve got you a little outnumbered.”

Dean took a step forward, meaning to join Cain on the porch, but Cain turned and caught his eye before he could even walk into the firelight. He made a small, quelling gesture with one hand before turning back to Jack. Dean and Sam traded worried looks, but neither of them moved. If Cain thought he had a handle on the situation, then they would have to trust him.

“What do you want, Jack?” Cain asked. “What needs to happen to have y’all walk away without any more fuss?”

“You know what I want,” Jack said, jabbing a finger at Cain. “What I deserve: control of this village’s water!”

“And I know it ain’t happenin’.” Cain crossed his arms over his chest and his voice went cold. “So how’re we gonna reach a compromise?”

“We ain’t. Give me the water. It’s what our new guardian has deemed right for us. For me.”

Cain didn’t move. “And if I keep disagreein’?”

Jack smirked and looked back at the group of people behind him. When he looked back, his eyes were wide and crazed. “Then we burn you and your house to the ground.”

Cain’s shoulders tensed up for a brief second before relaxing again. “We ain’t got the water to spare on burnin’ houses. You know that.”

Jack’s smile just got wider. “Then I guess you gotta give me what I want.”

There was a long, heavy silence, with only the crackling torches making any sound. Dean thought he heard the call of a raven echo out from somewhere else in the village. “You’re insane,” Cain said, voice gone soft.

“No,” Jack said, with a short shake of his head. “For the first time in my life, my mind is clear. As clear as our desert. And in that clarity, I know that in order to reach my true, great destiny, I need to get rid of all my obstacles. And you, Cain, are definitely an obstacle.”

A small gasp drew Sam and Dean’s attention away from what was happening on the front porch and back into the house. Colette was standing just outside her bedroom, clutching a blanket around her shoulders, eyes wide and dark. Dean wasn’t sure how long she’d been listening, but what she did hear scared her. Sam opened her mouth to say something to her, but before he could, Cain started talking again.

“Whatever obstacle you seem to think I am, I reckon I’m a necessary one.” Cain dropped his hands and clenched them into fists, his posture become hulking and threatening. “You’ll get control of the water when I lay in the ground, cold and dead.”

“And that can easily be arranged,” Jack said, voice pitched to a roar. He turned his head to holler at the crowd. “C’mon, guys, let’s tear ‘im apart!”

The mob burst forward with a cry, and Cain lunged backwards into the house. He slammed the door shut just in time to stop Jack from coming in after them. The door rattled in its frame, and as someone on the other side scrabbled for the doorknob, Cain slid a nearby chair against the door to lock it in place. More bodies slammed into the door, but it stayed firm. For now. The light grew stronger around the windows as people started calling for fire.

“They’re gonna try to smoke us out,” Cain said. He shoved past Sam and Dean on his way to Colette’s side. “We gotta go out the back before they make it round there. Grab what you need, and be quick ‘bout it.”

Everyone scrambled to collect their belongings. Sam and Dean, used to quick exits, were packed in moments. They ran for the back door, Cain and Colette just a few steps behind them.

They burst out the house just a second before a handful of Jack’s people rounded the corner of the house. The woman in the lead yelled when she saw them, and the group rushed at them. As Cain and Colette ran for the stables, Sam and Dean stopped to deal with their attackers. None of them had any real training, when it came to fighting, and with a few quick, efficient blows, the brothers had the mob on the ground. After checking to make sure that no one was going to get up again, Sam and Dean ran for the stables.

Cain and Colette were on horses by the time Sam and Dean came in. Sam’s gelding was fidgeting in his stall, and Baby was kicking at her stall’s door, trying to bust out. Cain watched as the brothers prepared to ride. “We gotta go now,” Cain said, “but I wanna tell y’all one thing first: head to Deepwell. Figure this all out.”

“You’re not coming with us?” Sam asked as he tied off his bags and checked his horse’s tack.

“I think it’d be wiser to go north than south.” Cain glanced back at Colette, who nodded her agreement. “We’re gonna go to Fallowfield, maybe even Salvation. This is too much for a mere headman like me to handle.”

The rushing sound of flames caught everyone’s attention, and they all turned to watch as Cain’s house caught flame. Within a couple breaths, Cain’s northern neighbor also caught. Dean reckoned that by the morning, most of the village would be aflame, and everyone who lived here would be homeless. All because of a madman who thought a so-called ghost said he was important.

Dean swallowed against an odd tightness in his throat and turned back towards Cain. “Any idea what we should do once we’re in Deepwell?”

Cain shrugged. “Talk to the dowser. This has to do with water, so I reckon that dowsers are the best path you’ve got.” He shifted in his saddle, turned to look at Colette again, and said, “We gotta move. Find us, if you manage to fix our desert.”

“And may the guardian smile on you,” Colette murmured.

Dean gave Colette a tight smile. “And on you, ma’am.”

With a click of his tongue, Cain rode forward, Colette right behind them. They stayed away from the spreading blaze as they rode north, and soon the shadows swallowed them. Sam and Dean watched their departure until they were gone, and then turned to mount their own horses. They didn’t speak as they kicked their horses into a gallop, riding south, leaving the burning village behind them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deepwell. The dowser. Dreaming.

The burning village was a beacon in the night, visible for miles. Sam and Dean’s shadows, elongated and twisted by the firelight, led the way as they rode southeast.

The fire was no more than a flicker of light on the horizon when they rode into Deepwell shortly after dawn. Townspeople from all sides hailed them, wanting to know what had happened to their northern neighbor. Sam looked ready to stop and answer all of the questions being thrown at them, but Dean gave him a short shake of his head.

“We need to find this place’s dowser,” Dean said. “That’s gotta come first right now.”

Sam nodded, but he looked bothered by Dean’s decision. After a moment of thought, his expression cleared, and he looked out at the townspeople surrounding them. “We’d love to answer your questions,” he said, voice carrying over the crowd, “but we need to speak to your dowser first. Where can we find them?”

Silence swept across the crowd, and Dean saw more than a few people exchange glances. The crowd shifted, then parted, opening a path that led deeper into town. Several hands pointed out the way, but no one moved to actively guide them further. Feeling uncomfortable under all those stares, Dean nodded his thanks and rode on, Sam close behind him.

“Did we say something wrong?” Dean muttered once they’d left the townspeople behind.

“I don’t know,” Sam said. His brow was furrowed in thought. “Maybe something’s going on with their dowser?”

Dean shrugged. “It’s possible. We won’t know ’til we find them.” Glancing at the buildings they passed, he said, “Tell you what, though, this place has definitely seen better days.”

Deepwell’s buildings were long and broad, like those in Fallowfield. Unlike Fallowfield’s buildings, though, these were more than one story tall, and most appeared neglected. Some had patched rooftops and shutters that sat partially off their hinges, and everything was made of splintered, gray timber. To Dean, almost every building seemed close to collapsing.

Sam seemed to be thinking the same thing, and he eyed the houses with something close to distrust. “Hard times?”

Dean shrugged again. He wasn’t ready to reach any conclusions until they at least talked to Deepwell’s dowser. If he’d learned anything during his time in the Great Desert, it was that dowsers were a wellspring of useful information. Hopefully this dowser could explain the drought situation a little bit more clearly.

Granted, Dean thought, frowning a little to himself, that nothing horrible had happened to the dowser of Deepwell.

The sense of wider space opening up around him pulled Dean out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see that they’d reached the town’s center. As he took in the details of his surroundings, Dean felt the blood drain out of his face. He stopped Baby short, and he heard Sam do the same with his horse beside him.

“By the grace of the Creator,” Sam breathed.

The square was an empty patch of land, with houses on all sides. Besides the road they stood on, there was another that led out of the square, pointed northwest. And, as in Salvation and Fallowfield, a fountain sat in the center of the square.

It was massive and made of pitted, stained white stone. The fountain consisted of a deep, wide basin, with two statues standing in the middle. One was a crested serpent, which faced northward, crest flared, looking wary and protective. The other statue was of a man in desert garb, hand outstretched as he also looked north. Water dripped from his fingers.

While the fountain piqued Dean’s curiosity, his attention was on something much more dire. Besides the trickle of water coming from the statue’s hand, there was no visible running water anywhere else in the fountain. Nudging his horse a little bit farther into the square, Dean saw that the water in the fountain’s basin was less than a yard deep. Cracks, wide and stark in the morning light, radiated from the fountain and across the parched earth in jagged lines.

“If this ain’t a drought,” Dean said to himself, “then I dunno what is.”

“I never imagined it’d be this bad,” Sam said. He was looking at everything with wide eyes. “Just, Dean, the _fountain_.”

“I know.” Dean glanced at the statues and then away, wiping a hand over his mouth. Something about the statues, especially the human one, made him uneasy. “We gotta find that dowser. Quick.”

Sam looked at the houses edging the square and pointed at one on the northern side. It stood a little separate from the other houses around it, and blue cloth was tacked above the front door. A wave pattern was sewn into the cloth with white thread. “That looks promising,” Sam said.

“So it does.” Clucking at Baby, Dean led the way to the house. “Let’s see if we can get some answers.”

They dismounted and tied up their horses in front of the house with little fuss. As they stepped onto the front porch, there wasn’t any sign of movement or life from inside the house. Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam, who only shrugged before reaching out and knocking on the front door.

There was no response. After waiting a few minutes, Sam cleared his throat and knocked again, louder this time. There was still no answer. Dean was about to suggest kicking in the door when a voice called out from inside the house. It was muffled, but clear enough to understand.

“I thought I made it clear that I ain’t seen’ anyone! What’s so cursed important that you’d ignore a dowser’s orders?”

“Erm,” Sam said, casting a wide-eyed glance in Dean’s direction. “My name’s Sam Winchester, and I’m with my brother, Dean. We’re here because—“

“Wait,” the voice cut in, “did you say _Winchester_?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

A scrabbling sound came from the other side of the door, and after a few seconds the door opened. A short woman stood in the entryway, her messy dark hair kept away from her face by a loose horsetail. A strip of cloth was tied across the woman’s eyes.

“‘Bout time y’all showed up,” the woman said, smiling crookedly. “C’mon in. It gets hot early and quickly round here.”

The woman turned and walked further in the house, one hand lightly brushing against the wall as she went. After a moment’s hesitation, Sam followed her, Dean right behind him.

The house was dim and sparsely decorated, with almost all of the furniture sitting flush against the walls. The woman touched anything she passed, table and shelf alike. She soon turned, leading them into a small, cluttered kitchen. There was a small table shoved against the far wall, and the woman went to it, her hand leaving the wall as she stepped across the room.

“I’m Pamela, by the way,” she said. She found a chair with her outstretched hands and carefully lowered herself into it. She looked relieved to be off her feet. “Pamela Barnes. Figured it ain’t fair for me to know your names when you don’t know mine.”

“Please to meet you, ma’am,” Dean said. “Though if you don’t mind me asking, how is it that you know our names?”

Pamela tilted her head and smiled broadly. “You’re a sharp one,” she said. “Handsome too, if I go by your voice. Shame I can’t see ya.”

Dean fidgeted, unsure of how to react to the sudden flirtation, and rubbed at the back of his neck. He knew Sam was smirking at him, but there wasn’t much he could do about that right now. Clearing his throat, Dean said, “You ain’t missing much, ma’am.”

“Says you.” Pamela huffed a sigh, her smile dimming a little as she said, “I dreamed you were comin’. Dowsers don’t dream often, but when we do, it’s best we sit up an’ listen.”

Dean, who’d been in the process of sitting down at the table, froze. “You dreamed about us?” he asked, working to keep his voice steady.

“Kinda. It was a lot of light and noise. But I heard words, clear as anythin’. Your saviors are comin’, and they bear the name of Winchester.” Pamela turned to face Dean. “Sound familiar?”

Dean went cold all over. “No,” he said quickly. Too quickly, if the look Sam was giving him was anything to go by. He forced a smile on his face and said, “Should it?”

Pamela frowned at Dean. “I might be blind, but I ain’t _stupid_ ,” she said. At Dean’s silence, Pamela shrugged and turned away. “Call it a hunch, if that’ll settle you better.”

That suited Dean just fine. He nodded and then, realizing Pamela couldn’t see it, said, “That works.”

Sam was still staring, his expression equal parts suspicious and worried. Sighing, Dean shook his head at Sam and mouthed out a “later.” Sam nodded, albeit reluctantly, and turned his attention back to Pamela.

“Your dream called us saviors,” Sam said. “Do you have any ideas about what that means?”

“‘Course,” Pamela said with a toss of her hair, tone matter-of-fact. “Y’all are gonna fix our drought problem.”

Sam’s eyes lit up. “Did you actually dream of us solving it?”

Pamela sighed and shook her head. “I find water,” she said. “Future-seein’, even in dreams, is a little outta my skill range.”

“Oh.” Sam flopped down into the seat across from Dean, looking crestfallen. “It was worth a shot.”

Dean shook his head a little. He’d never guessed that fixing the entirety of the desert would be as easy as just asking for instructions. “What can you tell us, then?” he asked Pamela.

“It ain’t a natural drought,” she said after a moment of thought. “Though I reckon you already heard that on your way to Deepwell. It’s affected six villages to the northeast of us, and Deepwell’s on its way to dryin’ out, too.”

“I don’t know if you’ve been told yet, but the drought’s spreading northwest, too,” Dean said. “It’s causing conflicts. Your closest neighbor is aflame.”

Pamela started, leaning forward and into the two brothers’ space. “The whole village? Is Cain all right?”

Sam raised an eyebrow at the distress tensing up Pamela’s frame. “He rode north,” he said slowly. “He should be in Fallowfield in a few days.”

“Good,” Pamela said, sinking back into her seat with a relieved sigh. “That’s good to hear.”

Dean tilted his head, frowning a little. “How d’you know Cain?”

“He visits Deepwell on a near-regular basis,” Pamela said, shrugging. “We’re good friends.”

Dean nodded. “That explains why he was so quick to point us in your direction.”

“He did that ‘cause he knows I can help, not just ‘cause we’re friends. He’s a smart one, Cain. Shame that the drought’s torn at him like that.”

Sam gently cleared his throat. “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” he said. “Now, is there anything else you can tell us about the drought?”

Pamela briefly frowned in Sam’s direction, and then her expression smoothed out. “Whatever’s causin’ this is right powerful,” she said. She gestured to her face. “Strong enough to blind me, at least.”

Shock lit through Dean, and Sam looked horrorstruck. “How?” Dean asked. “When?”

“It happened ‘bout a couple weeks ago,” Pamela said, calm in the wake of the brothers’ panic. “As for _how_ , though, can’t really say for sure.”

“Maybe,” Sam said, “you could tell us the whole story.”

Dean managed to mutter agreement, but besides that, he found himself still too blindsided to properly speak. Imagining a creature drying out multiple villages was relatively easy for him, but it was harder to think of something that was able to blind people. Monsters were known to kill, and rarely stopped at maiming their victims. What could be cruel enough to do this? Nothing came to mind, and that sent the faintest shiver of fear down Dean’s spine.

“Right,” Pamela said, catching Dean’s attention again. “I heard that someone claiming to be a water witch revived a well in one of the nearby villages. I rode out to see it, ‘cause I ain’t never heard of this before now.

“Everything looked all right. The water was clear, didn’t smell, and the villagers looked healthy. But when I used my magic on the well, something felt… off.”

Sam frowned a little. “Off how?” he asked.

“Dunno how to describe it.” Pamela shrugged a shoulder. “It felt like water, but also _not_ like water, all at the same time.”

“How can something be both water and not water?” Dean asked, lost.

“I’d tell ya if I could, kid, believe me.” Pamela sighed, and she suddenly looked tired. “Anyway, I was about to dig deeper into it when this, this horrible pain stabbed into my eyes. And a horrible voice went through my head.”

“What did it say?” Sam asked quietly.

“It told me to stay away from the wells.” Pamela began to grow pale as she spoke. “The new guardian had no need for meddling dowsers. That when the pain got worse. People said I started screamin’, but I don’t remember that. Or passin’ out. But when I woke up, I was like this.”

The silence after Pamela finished speaking was heavy, and it made it difficult for Dean to breathe. Sam had gone pale, though his jaw was clenched. That was as good a sign as anything. Neither of them could afford fear during this hunt.

“And that’s it,” Pamela said, lifting her hands up in a small shrug. “I got helped back here, and I ain’t left my house since. I only need to learn a lesson once.”

Dean let out a sharp breath. Sam glanced at him and said, “This isn’t the first time we’ve heard about a new guardian. That guy in Cain’s village mentioned one, too.”

“I know.” Dean tapped a finger on the tabletop as he thought. “What if it _is_ a new guardian? Not just a witch?”

“You kiddin’?” Pamela said with a snort. “Not only is that impossible, but the dowsers woulda been warned of it. Our powers come from our guardian, after all.”

“So it’s a false guardian,” Sam said, tone barely lifting into a question.

“Yup. Somebody’s tryin’ to usurp the title. As for why, I can’t even begin to guess.”

“I wanna know where the real guardian is,” Dean said. “With all of this happening, why hasn’t it stopped this? Or at least tried to?”

Even with the cloth covering her eyes, Pamela’s glare was scathing. “Who’re you to say that he ain’t tried and failed?” she asked. “Or maybe he’s got a plan. Maybe _he’s_ the reason you’re here.”

“I think we’d know if the guardian tried to contact us,” Sam said, sounding skeptical. “Right, Dean?”

“Right,” Dean said absently. Something had occurred to him at Pamela’s words, and it gave him chills. There was a chance Pamela was right. More than a chance, really.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean said under his breath.

Pamela tilted her head in Dean’s direction. “What was that?”

“Nothing, ma’am,” Dean said hurriedly. “Just, y’know, thinking aloud.”

“Right,” Pamela said after a moment’s pause. “Y’all getting tired? You rode all night to get here, after all.”

She pointed over her shoulder, but made no move to stand. “Guest bedroom’s in the back right of the house. Forgive me for not showin’ you personally, but I don’t prefer walking around unhelped, these days.”

“I ain’t holding it against you, ma’am.” Dean pushed away from the table and stood. “We’ll finish our talk tonight. C’mon, Sammy.”

The hallway leading to the back of the house was long and dim, the windows on both walls shuttered against the brightening sunlight. Sam waited until they left the kitchen before turning to Dean and asking, “Want to explain what happened back there?”

Curse Sam and his sharp eyes. Dean kept looking ahead, not wanting his face to accidentally give anything away. “What d’you mean?” he asked.

“You know what I mean,” Sam said, exasperated. “Pamela started talking about her dream, and you went white as a sheet.”

Dean stayed quiet. They reached the end of the hall, and he went to open the last door on the right.

“You’ve had the same dream, haven’t you?” Sam asked.

Dean paused with his hand on the doorknob. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and nodded.

Pressing his luck, Sam said, “And you’ve had the same dream more than once.”

He’d already admitted to having the dream in the first place, so it was easy to just nod again. Dean’s grip tightened on the doorknob, and he hoped Sam would now drop the subject and move on.

But when Sam was curious, he got relentless. After a few breaths of silence, he finally asked, “What did the dreams say to you?”

Dean considered snapping at Sam, viciously cutting the conversation short, but he couldn’t do it. With another person having dreams similar to his, Sam was less likely to think Dean was crazy. And he deserved to know about the dream creature that had practically shoved them towards Deepwell.

Still, that didn’t mean they had to talk about all of that right this instant.

“Can we talk about this later, Sammy?” Dean asked as he pushed the bedroom door open. “Right now I’m tired, and there’s a cot calling my name.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You’re not running away from telling me,” he said, “are you?”

“Nah, I’m just tired, like I said. Now lemme sleep. I’ll tell you what I can when we get up.”

Even though Dean could practically feel the curiosity radiating from his brother, Sam gave in, and they both got ready to sleep. As Dean stretched out on his cot and drifted off, he found himself thinking of Castiel. He hoped, vaguely, that the guy would show up in his dreams today.

Because, in Dean’s opinion, Castiel had a few things to explain to him.

=

“Care to explain why I’m here?” Castiel asked, arms crossed over his bare chest.

Dean blinked rapidly, the desert sun hanging overhead near-blinding. It also didn’t help that he had no idea what Castiel was talking about. “What?”

“You’re in Deepwell, and yes, that’s good progress,” Castiel said, sounding like he was growing irritated, “but there was no need to call me. It’s not like you have any real news.”

“Wait a moment,” Dean said. He shook his head briskly. “You’ve lost me. How is you being here _my_ fault?”

Castiel cast his eyes skyward before looking out into the desert. “And he did it without realizing,” he muttered. “Of course.”

Taking a deep breath and looking at Dean again, he said, “Thinking of me when you fall asleep makes your dreams stand out to me. It’s like a beacon. So I’m more likely to appear in your dreams.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Dean asked. “it’s not like you ever told me.”

While Castiel’s expression was still hard, Dean saw his eyes soften with something that was akin to sadness. “I never thought it would be an issue,” he said.

“Wha— Really?” Cas shook his head and Dean gaped. “You’ve been in my head almost every night ever since I showed up in this place. It’s kinda hard _not_ to think about you more often than not.” Dean paused, and then muttered, “Not that I mind it much.”

The smile Castiel gave Dean was fragile, but decidedly there. Dean hesitantly smiled back. Things felt calmer between them, all of a sudden, so Dean braced himself and plunged ahead.

“To be honest, though, I was mainly thinking about you because I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Castiel’s smile faltered before disappearing entirely, and his eyes became guarded. His voice, though, was perfectly steady when he said, “All right.”

Dean nodded. “Okay, so. The first time we talked, you told me that you represented someone who had the same interests as me. Right?”

Castiel nodded stiffly. “I wasn’t lying about that,” he said.

“I ain’t saying you were,” Dean said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “But you never mentioned who, exactly, you were speaking for.”

Castiel watched Dean, not saying anything even as his body tensed up.

“Are you talking for the guardian? Or at least somehow connected to it?”

Castiel looked thrown for a brief second, but then he blinked, and his expression went calm. His shoulders lost a good deal of their tension. There was the hint of a smile in his voice as he said, “Yes, you could say that we’re, ah, connected. Though what gave me away?”

Dean grinned, exhilarated by being right. “Nothing you did,” he said. “Pamela - Deepwell’s dowser - said something and it just got me thinking.”

“Ah, Pamela.” Cas looked down and away, and his tone was faintly apologetic. “She’s a good person, and, erm, one of the guardian’s best dowsers.”

“Yeah. She told me the guardian may have already asked for help, which is why me an’ my brother are here.”

“She’s always been clever.” A smile flitted across Castiel’s face, and he looked back up at Dean. “Did she inspire any other questions?”

Dean shook his head. “That was the big one. Though, now that I’m thinking about it,” he trailed off and cleared his throat. “Are you Emmanuel?”

Castiel chuckled, much to Dean’s surprise. “No,” he said, still laughing a little. “Emmanuel was honored by the guardian, yes, but he doesn’t serve him anymore. He rests peacefully.”

“Oh. Sorry, um, it just crossed my mind that it was a possibility.”

“It’s quite all right, Dean. I like your curiosity.” Castiel paused, and his brow furrowed. “Granted, it’s been a long time since I’ve talked with a human on a regular basis.”

Dean gaped. “What, really? That’s no way to go through life.”

“It’s not like I can do anything about it,” Castiel said, his tone almost defensive. “I speak to humans out of necessity.”

“And social interaction ain’t necessary?” Dean asked. Castiel shook his head, and Dean sighed. “Tell you what, then: you ever wanna talk, just drop on in. Folk say I’m good at listening.”

Castiel appeared to consider it for a moment before smiling widely, his eyes crinkling. “I think,” he said, “I would enjoy that. Thank you.”

“Ain’t nothing. Though,” Dean hesitated and glanced at Castiel. He’d shown up to every dream so far buck naked, and Dean wasn’t sure he could really handle it if they were going to talk more often. Clearing his throat and feeling awkward, he asked, “Could you maybe wear some clothes next time? Or at least some pants?”

“Why?” Castiel looked down at himself, puzzled. “There is no need to be ashamed of the natural human form.”

“Yeah, well, where I come from, it’s a little indecent to go around naked.” Curse it all, Dean was definitely blushing now. He could feel it heating up the back of his neck and both of his ears. “And if we’re gonna talk more, you’re gonna need pants, okay?”

Castiel looked like he still didn’t really get it, but at least he still nodded and said, “Okay.” Then, looking out at the desert, he let out a quiet sigh. “I must end the conversation here. It’s still daytime, and I need my rest.”

Before Dean could protest or ask any more questions, Castiel reached out and touched Dean’s forehead with two fingers. “Rest well, Dean Winchester,” he murmured. “You’re getting close to the witch, and you’ll need all your strength when you meet her.”

=

Sam was still snoring away when Dean woke up. He felt far too energized to sleep more, so he quietly left his brother to sleep and wandered out into the house.

The sun was setting, and the dying light filtered in past the shutters in narrow slants. There weren’t any lit lanterns to be seen, so the darkness within the house grew with each passing minute. Trailing his fingers along the wall, Dean made his way back towards the kitchen.

Pamela wasn’t there, but after a bit of searching, Dean found her in the sitting room, perched on the edge of an armchair. She looked troubled.

“Something happen?” Dean asked as he stepped into the room.

If he’d startled Pamela, she didn’t show it. “Not yet,” she said.

Dean had never enjoyed cryptic answers. Sighing, he flopped on the couch that was situated next to Pamela’s chair. “Then why are you sitting here, frowning at nothing?”

Pamela snorted. “I’m blind. What else d’you suggest I stare at?”

Dean stayed quiet, waiting. Finally, Pamela let out a short sigh and said, “I’m preemptively worryin’ ‘bout you and your brother.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Pamela said, swallowing tightly. “I know where the witch is goin’ to be next, and I’m afraid that I’m gonna point you right to her.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharing. Traveling again. Conversations. Strangers.

Dean wasted no time waking Sam up. Sam was grumpy at first, squinting and preparing to lecture Dean about letting people sleep, but he went still when he heard what was happening. In a matter of minutes both brothers were walking into the sitting room, Sam more awake and alert than he had been a short while ago.

Pamela tilted her head in their direction, eyebrow raised. “Did you really need to wake Sam?” she asked Dean. “I coulda told him when he got up later.”

“This is too important,” Dean said. It was their first lead in what felt like weeks, and he didn’t want to sit idly by and watch this opportunity slip past them.

Sitting down on the couch, with Sam following suit, Dean said to Pamela, “You know where the water witch is gonna be next.”

Pamela let out a short sigh and nodded. Sam straightened up in his seat and glanced at Dean, who gave him a look that said _See? I told you._

“Where is she?” Sam asked eagerly.

“I don’t know _that_ ,” Pamela said, giving Sam a small, crooked smile. “I know where she _will_ be, and when.”

Dean leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Mind sharing the details?” he asked.

“‘Course. A kid came by while y’all were sleepin’. Said she was riding from a village ‘bout four days northeast of here, and she had a message for me.

“It seems that people still livin’ in her village have been seein’ the ghost carriage every night for the last couple weeks. And last week, a crow came flyin’ in and made its home on the headman’s roof.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Are crows unusual?” he asked, thinking of the flocks that frequented the plains.

“Yup. Birds are rare out here.” Pamela shrugged. “There ain’t much life outside the range of the wells. Most animals are located in the towns and villages, including the ‘casional bird.”

Pamela shrugged again, but she now looked uneasy. “Also, out here, carrion eaters are thought to be foretellers of disaster and death. Just so y’all know.”

Dean’s shoulders went tense. He was no longer thinking of his homeland, but of the Great Desert. In their time here, he’d caught sight of a crow twice: once at the entrance of Salvation, and one perched on Salvation’s well. He couldn’t help but wonder, just a little, if that was a coincidence or something much more significant.

“Did the crow do anything?” Sam asked when the silence spun out for far too long.

“Spooked the entire village, for one,” Pamela said. “They tried shooin’ it away with rocks and arrows, but nothin’ worked. It’d leave for a while, then come back and roost again. The last time it came back, it dropped a scroll on the headman’s porch and hollered ’til the guy came out and read it.”

“What’d it say?” Dean asked.

“It said that someone would arrive during the next full moon to fix their well.” Pamela scowled a little. “Since the message was given by a crow, so soon after people were seein’ the ghost carriage, the villagers think they’re gonna get hit with a curse instead of a blessin’. Me? I ain’t so sure.”

Sam tilted his head in thought. “You think it’s the water witch.”

“It makes the most sense. Who else is wanderin’ around and claimin’ to ‘fix’ wells?”

Dean glanced at Sam. “I’ve lost track of the moon,” he said quietly.

“I haven’t,” Sam said with an easy shrug. Out of the two of them, Sam had the better mind for those kinds of details. “It’s waxing. It’ll be full in less than a week, I think.”

“Then we ain’t got time to waste.” Dean pushed himself off the couch as he spoke. “Sam, you grab our bags. I’ll—“

Pamela held up a stilling hand. “Easy there, kid,” she said. “You ain’t leavin’ quite yet.”

Dean scowled down at her. “Why not?”

“You’re gonna need four days’ worth of water for you _and_ your horses. D’you think it’ll be easy to get that here?”

“No,” Dean said, after a brief pause.

“And you gotta figure somethin’ out, first.” Pamela raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. “Are y’all ready to face this witch?”

Dean bristled. “Why wouldn’t we be?” he demanded. “We’re _hunters_. This ain’t the first witch we’ve gone up against.”

“It ain’t mine, either, and look.” She waved a vague gesture at her ruined eyes. “Have y’all come across somethin’ that can do _this_?”

Dean didn’t have an answer for her. After a moment, Sam gently touched his wrist. “Remember what Rufus said?” he asked Dean. “Every hunter that went after the ghost carriage died. What if they ran into the witch?”

There wasn’t anything Dean could say to that bit of logic, either. Heaving out a disgruntled sigh, Dean flopped back down on the couch and crossed his arms over his chest. Pamela smiled a little at his audible grumbling.

“There,” she said. “It’s a good thing your brother has more reason in his head than you do.”

Dean spluttered, and Sam smirked in his direction. Indignant, he managed to say, “He does _not_ —“

“I’ll help you boys gather supplies,” Pamela said, talking over Dean with ease. “Ain’t no one in the whole desert who’d say no to a dowser. And while we do that, y’all can think ‘bout your next move.”

“We ain’t got much to choose from,” Dean muttered.

Pamela stood and smiled down at Dean. “Fate is a river, Dean,” she said. “You can’t fight the current, but there’s always a branch-off or two somewhere further downstream.”

She felt her way out of the room, leaving Sam and Dean sitting there, looking lost.

“When will we meet a dowser who doesn’t talk riddles at us?” Sam asked.

Dean snorted. “Probably never,” he said. He clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder and stood. “We’d best get ready to hit the town.”

=

Like Salvation, the town of Deepwell truly awoke during the night. Torches and lanterns filled every street corner with flickering light, and a market opened up on the street behind Pamela’s house. They took the back door out of her house and stepped into the small stream of people outside.

“Why not set up the market in the town’s square?” Sam asked as he led Pamela through the crowd. Dean was walking in front of the pair, running interference on anyone who got a little too close.

“We used to,” Pamela said. She looked in the direction of a knot of refugees, who sat on the side of the road and begged for food and water. She looked pained. “Then people - refugees, mostly - got it in their heads that all the bustle was botherin’ the guardian and takin’ our water away. So the market moved.”

“But you’re still losing water,” Sam said. Dean could practically hear his brow furrowing in confusion.

“The move didn’t make sense in the first place,” Pamela said with a snort. “Why would they suddenly start listenin’ to reason?”

She tugged on Sam’s arm and cocked her head at a merchant nearby. His stall was well-stocked, and his voice rang out clearly across the crowd of people. “I know this one. Lead me over so I can work on ‘im.”

Sam complied, and then walked back to where Dean was waiting after Pamela waved the both of them away. The merchant, recognizing his customer, bowed repeatedly as he spoke. The gesture was lost on Pamela, and with a few short words she brought the conversation around to more businesslike matters. The two dipped their heads together as they began to dicker.

“Gotta admit,” Dean said, shoving his hands into his pockets, “she knows what she’s doing.”

“Yeah,” Sam murmured. Turning to look at Dean, he said, “By the way, don’t think that you’re clear of telling me about your dreams.”

Dean sighed. “Never thought I was,” he said. “You’re like a dog with a bone with crap like this.”

“Yeah I am,” Sam said. “And don’t you forget it.”

“I won’t any time soon, believe me.” They watched Pamela for a while. She was now tapping one finger against the merchant’s stall in emphasis as she spoke, and while the merchant was still putting up a fight, it didn’t look like much of one.

“Okay,” Dean said, abrupt.

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Okay?”

“Go ahead and ask. Looks like Pam’s gonna be a while longer, and I can’t stand it when you get all fidgety like that.”

Sam grinned, briefly triumphant, before his expression slipped to something more thoughtful. “Just,” he said, “start from the beginning? I’ll ask questions if I’ve got them.”

So Dean did. He started with the time he woke up screaming, which Sam already knew about. He described the light and the terrible, roaring voice. He talked about the one time it broke through their wards. Dean spoke in short, clipped sentences, not wanting to linger on the pain and fear of those dreams.

When he got to Castiel, he saw how Sam’s eyes sparked with curiosity. Dean told him about how Castiel influenced his choice to come to Deepwell. He finished with what Castiel had said the night before, about how they were getting close to the witch. He left the rest of the conversation out. Sam didn’t need to know about Dean offering Castiel his friendship.

“And that’s it,” Dean said, with a small shrug. “That’s why Pam’s dream got to me so badly.”

“Because you’ve had it, too,” Sam said. Then he frowned. “And _why_ didn’t you tell me all of this earlier?”

“‘Cause I didn’t want you thinking I’d gone crazy,” Dean said. Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Dean kept going, voice low and fierce. “I ain’t got a drop of magic in my blood, and no history of dream-seeing. What else would you think if I’d said anything before we met Pam?”

“Fair point,” Sam said, after a thoughtful pause. “After all, out of the two of us, you’re the less likely to be creative.”

Dean elbowed Sam in the ribs. “Fuck off,” he said, laughing a little. “I’m the one who designed most of our traps and wards, remember?”

“Okay, okay,” Sam said, rubbing his chest and grinning. It took them both a few minutes to calm back down.

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Who _is_ Castiel?”

Dean shrugged a shoulder. “Says he speaks for the guardian, and I believe that. He ain’t Emmanuel, either. I asked.”

“Then what is he? A spirit? An elemental? What could have such close ties to a guardian?”

Dean looked away. Pamela looked nearly done, a pile of goods in front of her and the merchant looking more than a little put out as they continued to talk. Finally, Dean said, “I don’t know.”

Sam tilted his head. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

Honestly, it bothered Dean a _lot_ , but he didn’t want to admit it. Luckily, Pamela beckoned them over right then, cutting the conversation short. Dean practically leapt to her side, Sam following at a more sedate pace.

“I got everything y’all are gonna need,” Pamela said. She turned her head in Dean’s direction. “I’m guessin’ you’ve decided to keep going?”

“We’ve gone too far already to just stop right here, ma’am,” Dean said.

“Right.” Pamela tapped the pile of goods in front of them. “So pay for these so we can go.”

Dean stared at her. “You ain’t gonna help us pay for this?” he asked.

Pamela shook her head, spreading her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I’m a dowser, and sworn to poverty,” she said. “I ain’t got the funds to spare.”

“All right, all right,” Dean said. He continued to grumble as he pulled out his coin purse. “Better be worth it.”

“With the road ahead of you boys, they’ll pay for themselves quick enough.” Pamela gave Dean’s arm a light, reassuring pat. “Now quit your bellyachin’. The sooner you pay, the sooner you can hit the road.”

=

They left Deepwell a little after midnight, Pamela telling them that they’d reach the first village by dawn. “But don’t expect nothin’ big,” she said warningly. “Anyone with enough sense cleared outta there weeks ago.”

That worked for Dean. He didn’t want to deal with hostile villagers, driven mad by thirst and desperation. A quiet ride sounded just fine.

The rest of the night went by quickly. They traveled without lanterns, as the moon was big enough to light the road before them. By Sam’s reckoning, they had six days at the most before the moon was full.

When the sun was just beginning to peek over the eastern mountains, Sam and Dean reached the village. It was empty of any sign of life. The horses’ hoofbeats echoed off the house’s walls. When they passed the well, Dean looked into it curiously. Only dirt, bone dry and cracked by the heat and sun, was visible at the bottom.

“This is eerie,” Sam murmured. Somewhere, a door continuously opened and closed in the slight morning breeze, making a hollow knocking sound.

“We can’t be picky,” Dean said, straightening back up in his saddle. “C’mon, let’s find a cool place to hole up in for the day.”

After a couple rides up and down the village’s main street, they settled on staying in what used to be the headperson’s house. It was large, and the only house with an attached stable. They quickly fed and watered the horses before escaping into the cool shadows of the abandoned house.

Sam and Dean slept in shifts. Dean took the first watch, and as Sam slept, Dean wondered where the villagers had all gone. Maybe to Deepwell, or even Fallowfield. Just thinking about the refugees he’d seen in both towns made his jaw clench. Hopefully, they’d have this all solved by this time next week.

It was Dean’s turn to sleep an hour or so past noon, and he drifted off gratefully. Castiel was waiting for him in his dreams, which didn’t surprise him at all.

“Hey there, Castiel,” Dean said. The dream was different this time. They stood in the mountain pass that connected the desert and the plains. Looking eastward at the vast sea of tall grass, Dean felt a pang of homesickness. “What brings you into my head today?”

Castiel shrugged, fingering the coat he was wearing with delicate fingers. He had followed Dean’s request, to an extent, and was wearing a shirt and trousers, as well as a sandy brown duster that dwarfed him. His feet were still bare, toes dug into the dirt of the pass. His trousers were dusty from the knee down, and the hem of his duster was slightly torn. The clothes, overall, looked lived in, not just imagined up for Dean’s peace of mind.

“You look nice,” Dean said, and then flushed. “Ah, I mean, I like the coat. It’s nice.”

Castiel smiled and tugged on his coat’s lapels. “Thank you. I’m particularly fond of it, too.” Glancing at the desert and back at Dean, he said, “As for me being here, well. I wanted to take you up on your invitation from last time.”

“So this is a social call?” At Castiel’s nod, Dean grinned and sat down, legs sprawled out in front of him. “Great. I was worried something was wrong.”

Castiel copied Dean and sat down, though he folded his legs under himself, coat pooling around him. “I wouldn’t have made the effort to bring our dream-selves here if there was trouble,” he said.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “ _You_ brought us here?”

“Of course,” Castiel said, preening a little. “Our minds automatically place our dreams where we are in reality. It takes effort to move away from that.”

Dean whistled lowly, impressed. “Why here, then?” he asked, gesturing at the pass with a wide sweep of one arm.

Castiel looked away again, but this time in the direction of the plains. “This is the edge of the desert’s territory. The edge of what I know. And…”

“And?” Dean asked when Castiel went quiet for too long.

When Castiel turned to face Dean again, it was almost like he was looking _into_ Dean, not at him. “I’m curious,” he said. Admitted, really, like it was a dark and terrible secret. “I want to know more about you. About the land you hail from.”

Dean blinked. “Oh.” All this time, he’d been slowly learning about the desert. It’d never occurred to him that someone would want to know about where _he’d_ come from. “Erm, okay. What do you wanna know?”

“Anything. Everything.” Castiel leaned forward, eyes bright and eager. “What is your family like? How do you make a living? What’s it like, living amongst all of that plant life? Do you have stories or—“

“Whoa, easy,” Dean said, laughing. “One question at a time, I’m only human.”

Castiel barely looked chastised, but Dean didn’t mind. He started talking about his childhood, about running wild out on the plains when the grass was taller than he was. He described what he remembered about his mother, who died at the hands of a monster when he was little. He also talked about his father, who’d driven his sons into hunting in his pursuit for revenge. Dean talked about learning to fight and shoot a gun before he could properly read and write. As he spoke he stared at his hands, unable to look at the sympathy and pain on Castiel’s face for too long.

“But it wasn’t all bad,” Dean said, finally looking up at Castiel. “I had Sam.”

He felt the air around him and Castiel lighten as he delved into his adventures with Sam. When their father wasn’t teaching them how to hunt, Dean tried to make sure the two of them had as normal a childhood as they could. As he retold the time Sam almost burned his own eyebrows off with a spell, Dean found himself laughing brightly. There were hundreds of other small moments, like birthdays and holidays and days away from their father, when they’d been there to prop each other up.

“And sure, we had fights,” Dean said. “We _still_ fight, every now and then, but we’re brothers. It’s how it works, y’know?”

Castiel nodded, but said nothing. Leaning back on his hands, Dean said, “Enough about me. What about you?”

Castiel started. “Me?”

“Yeah. I’ve told you everything about my family, so now you tell me about yours. That’s how it works.”

“Ah.” Castiel fidgeted a little, looking more uncomfortable now than he had moments before. “Well. I have my mother. And my siblings.”

“Siblings?” Dean sat up straighter, interested. “How many?”

“Three. I used to have others, but,” Castiel sighed and shrugged. “Only three now.”

“Oh,” Dean said dumbly, kicking himself mentally. Of course he would ask the worst question possible. “I’m sorry.”

Castiel shrugged again, looking out into the desert. “It is as Mother wills it.”

“‘Mother’?”

“Tell me a story,” Castiel said, abrupt. “Something from the plains.”

It was a weak attempt at a subject change, but Dean felt bad enough to let it go. After a pause to think, he told Castiel of the Bronze Doe, a wandering plains spirit, and how she helped a farm girl slay a great wyrm. Castiel listened raptly, and though he looked ready to comment at certain points, he remained silent throughout the telling.

“This Doe,” Castiel said once Dean finished, “do you have other stories about her?”

“Oh, lots,” Dean said, smiling. “She’s in a bunch of our stories, for some reason.”

“I’d like to hear more.” Glancing westward, Castiel said, “Not today, though. Night is coming.”

As they’d been talking, the sun had slipped down from its zenith, and was now beginning to sink below the western horizon. Dean jumped at the sight. “Shit. I’ve probably been asleep for ages. Sam’s never gonna let me hear the end of this.”

Castiel’s smile was wry and amused. “I’m sure he’ll forgive you.”

“Easy for you to say. You won’t have to deal with his bitching.”

“I think you’ll survive,” Castiel said with a huff of breath that nearly sounded like laughter. He leaned forward and touched two fingers to Dean’s forehead. “Until next time.”

Dean instinctively closed his eyes, and felt like he was falling backwards. “See you later, Cas.”

=

Once more, Dean felt a lot more rested than he should’ve when he woke up. Maybe Castiel had a hand in that, though Dean had no idea why he would do such a thing. Stretching, Dean put it out of his mind and went looking for Sam.

Sam wasn’t in the kitchen, where they’d chosen to bed down. Walking on light, quiet feet, Dean moved into the front rooms. Sam was in what used to be the sitting room, crouched at one of the front windows. Whatever he was watching out there, it had his full attention.

Following Sam’s lead, Dean stayed away from the windows as he crossed the room. He crouched next to Sam and murmured, “What is it?”

Without saying anything, Sam shifted away from the window and pointed. Dean shuffled forward and lifted his head just enough so he could see. The shadows were stretching long across the main street, the sun now halfway set. Directly across the street, working on picking the lock on a house’s front door, was a lone person. Dean couldn’t make out their features, but that wasn’t as important as what they were doing.

“I heard something an hour ago, and saw them when I investigated,” Sam said, voice barely above a whisper. “They’d started from the north end of the village, worked their way down.”

“Which means we’re probably next.” Dean gave Sam a grim smile. “Been a while since I had to nab a human.”

Sam gave him a helpless shrug, as if to say that it couldn’t be helped. Then, they turned to watch the thief work. They were in and out of the house in ten minutes. After glancing around, they crossed the road at a trot, head down, the shadow from their wide-brimmed hat hiding their face. With rapid gestures, Dean directed Sam to the back of the house. Once Sam was gone, Dean stood beside the front door and waited, hand on his sword’s hilt.

Everything was still for a couple of breaths. Then there was the soft sound of someone trying the doorknob, and the door swung open on quiet, well-oiled hinges. The thief stepped into the house, head turning every which way except behind them. Dean could’ve laughed at that carelessness, but instead eased his sword out of its sheath. Without turning around, the thief pushed the door shut with one hand.

When the door latched shut, Dean pounced. He took the thief down in one fluid movement. The thief grunted when they hit the ground, air rushing from their lungs, but they still scrabbled for the knife at their belt. Once Dean crouched over them and put his blade to their throat, though, the thief went immediately still.

Dean smiled thinly. “Good choice,” he said. Then, raising his voice so Sam could hear him, “Got ‘em!”

Sam was in the room in seconds, rifle in hand. “Everything’s quiet out back,” he said.

Dean hummed in thought. “Alone?” he asked the thief. “Not the smartest way to travel around these parts, hm?”

The thief remained silent. They wore a bandana tied around their mouth and nose, so that only their dark, glaring eyes were visible.

“I ain’t in much of a mood for quiet,” Dean said after a few moments. “Now c’mon, at least take off the mask.”

He reached for the bandana, and the thief started to struggle. They went still again when Dean reminded them of the sword still pressed against their throat. The bandana slipped down with an easy tug, revealing the thief’s face, and Dean sat back on his heels in surprise.

“He’s just a kid,” Sam said from behind him, shock making his voice shake a little.

The kid glared harder when he heard that. He didn’t even look old enough to shave, but he had plenty of fire in him. “Yeah, I’m young,” he bit out. “So what?”

“So what in the name of all that breathes are you doing out in this dried-out wasteland _alone_?” Dean demanded.

“A kid’s gotta survive somehow.” He squirmed a little. “Let me up!”

“Nope,” Dean said, tightening his hold. “Not until we’ve convinced you to stop raiding this village.”

“But it ain’t hurting anyone!” the kid said.

“Except the families who’ll eventually come back and find all their things missing,” Sam said. There was a hint of anger to his words.

Under the brothers’ twin glares, the fight went out of the kid in a rush. A desperate shine came to his eyes. “What else am I supposed to do?” he asked. “My family’s gone.”

Dean’s heart went out to the kid, but he kept his tone hard when he said, “Go south, to Deepwell. They’ll help you there.”

It looked like the kid planned to argue, but after a moment of thought, he nodded instead. Satisfied, Dean let him up.

“Go,” Dean said as the kid dusted himself off. “And if we see you again, I promise I’ll be less kind.”

The kid bolted. Standing at the front door, Sam and Dean watched him run south, shadow keeping pace at his side. He was out of sight within a handful of minutes.

“Do you think he’ll go to Deepwell?” Sam asked.

Dean sighed. “Dunno,” he said, and sheathed his sword. “I also don’t know if he was alone.”

Sam gave him a sharp look and said, “We’re heading out.”

“Yeah. I don’t wanna be here if he decides to come back with friends.”

=

The village was far behind them by the time night swept across the desert. Once more, they relied on the light of the moon to guide them along the road. Sam navigated their way forward and Dean ranged behind him, eyes on the desert around them. Once, a little past midnight, Dean thought he saw a string of lights a few miles out on their western flank, but they flickered out of sight soon after he caught sight of them. The night passed quietly.

The village they rode into at dawn, unlike the last one, was full of people. It was overfull, really, with tents occupying any empty space available around the buildings and people lining the streets. Dean thought their entrance into the village would get noticed, but instead they were lost in the crowd.

“First an empty village, and now one that’s full to bursting,” Dean said, mostly to himself. “What is going on?”

“Maybe this is Samandriel’s village,” Sam said, studying the crowds with visible interest. “You know, the one with the fixed well. The water could’ve attracted refugees.”

Dean grunted. “Water’s one thing, but what about food?” he asked. “What are all of these guys supposed to eat?”

“I don’t know.” Sam sighed wearily. “It’s one trouble after another out here. What else is new?”

Wanting to keep a low profile, they camped out amongst the refugees for the day. They slept in shifts again to discourage any would-be thieves from trying to rifle through their belongings. It seemed to work, as both were able to sleep unmolested when it was their turn.

When the sky faded from blue to orange to dusky purple, Sam and Dean rose and prepared to leave. At Sam’s suggestion, they checked the well on their way out. They had plenty of water left, thanks to Pamela, but refilling their empty waterskins wasn’t too bad of an idea.

The well was a simple thing, made of stone and wood. Water shimmered scant inches away from the brim of the well. Dean moved forward, empty skins in hand, but Sam stopped him.

“Hold on,” Sam said, reaching for his belt pouch. After a bit of fumbling, he lit a lantern and held it over his head. Painted on the side of the well was a symbol, shaped like a circle with a line slashed partway through it, like a upside-down Q. It looked vaguely familiar.

“I’ve seen that, before, but—“ Realization struck Dean, and he dug into his own pockets. He produced a silver pendant - the same one he’d pulled off the neck of the dead woman they’d discovered on the road to Salvation. The pendant and the symbol on the well matched perfectly.

“What do you think it means?” Sam asked after a long moment of quiet speculation.

“I don’t know,” Dean said, “but I don’t like it.” He tucked the pendant away again. “Let’s leave the water alone, yeah?”

Sam nodded. Without another word, Dean led them around the well and onto the road north.

=

There wasn’t a village at the end of their night of riding, but a ramshackle waypoint. Even in the gray predawn light it was obvious the well was empty. Grumbling to themselves, Sam and Dean tended to their horses and then squeezed under the tiny lean-to in an attempt to escape the impending heat.

Blessedly, Dean got to sleep first. Castiel was already sitting at the mountain pass when he fell asleep, and they passed the hours talking. Dean shared more stories about the Bronze Doe, as well as details from his more interesting hunts. In exchange, Castiel taught Dean the names of the fruits and plants that grew in the desert. Dean asked for stories about the desert, but Castiel brushed him off.

“Your brother is reading a book of them,” Castiel said, not unkindly. “Ask him if you’re curious.”

“He always reads when he’s on watch,” Dean said with a sigh. “It’s a pain to ask when one of us is supposed to be getting some sleep.”

“Watch?” Castiel tilted his head. “You two are traveling?”

“Yeah. ‘Guess you didn’t notice, since we’ve been talking up here.” Dean quickly explained what was happening, and where he and Sam were headed. When he finished, Castiel looked pale.

“And this is happening on the full moon?” At Dean’s nod, Castiel muttered, “That’s only three nights away.”

Dean glanced at the sky, which was still bright with the day. “How’d you figure that out so quickly?”

“I’m naturally attuned to the moon,” Castiel said, almost absently. Then he stood. “I must go.”

“What?” Dean asked, thrown. “Why?”

Castiel shook his head. “It’ll take too long to explain properly. Simply put, I need to rest.”

“Rest? For what?” Dean struggled to his feet. “You’re not making much sense, Cas.”

Castiel smiled wanly. “I know,” he said. “I’ll see you in a few days, Dean.”

“Wait—!”

Castiel’s form blurred and scattered into nothing, like mist caught in a breeze. The dream dissolved as well, and Dean found himself falling through darkness.

=

Jolting awake, Dean hit his head on the slanted roof of the lean-to with a hollow, metallic _bang_. He crouched back down with a curse, rubbing the crown of his head. Sam watched all of this calmly, one large finger holding his place in his book.

“Have an argument with Castiel?” Sam asked once Dean quieted down.

“Oh, fuck you,” Dean growled. Sam only smirked. “More like he bolted for no good reason.”

Sam’s amusement was quickly replaced with concern. “Everything okay?”

“No idea.” Once Dean was sure he wasn’t bleeding, he left his still-throbbing head alone and and straightened back up. Carefully. “I’ll find out in a few days. I think.”

Sam hummed in understanding, and looked back down at his book. “Hey,” he said, “I’m on the last story.”

“Finally.” Dean gave Sam a lopsided smile. “It feels like you’ve been reading that book for ages.”

“It’s dense, for a storybook.” Sam flipped through the pages, and Dean saw that the book’s text was tiny, with barely any visible space between lines. “And reading on horseback is a little tougher than it looks.”

“Told you,” Dean said. Looking out into the desert, he asked, “Find out anything interesting?”

“Yeah, actually,” Sam said. He continued to flick through the stories as he spoke. “A lot of these tales seem like a mix of myth and history, especially if the desert guardian is somehow involved. And this last story deals with the Devastation.”

Dean turned to Sam, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. “Really?” The Devastation, a great war that was fought less than three centuries before, was well-known across the lands. It had torn up every patch of civilization, from the western desert to the eastern coast, and things had only finished being rebuilt two decades ago. The earth itself held scars from the magic used in the turmoil, and it would take centuries more before those began to heal. “I thought most of the history about that time was lost.”

“It was. Which makes this book not only valuable, but fascinating.” Tapping the book’s cover with an idle finger, Sam said, “It claims the guardians were involved in the war.”

“ _Guardians_?” Dean looked back at the desert as he spoke, brow furrowed. “As in plural?”

He saw Sam nod in the corner of his eye. “That’s as far as I’ve read, so I don’t know why there’s more than one guardian, or why they were participating in the Devastation. Though—“

Dean smacked Sam’s thigh, cutting him off mid sentence. Sam glared at him, but Dean shook his head and pointed out at the desert. The air shimmered like liquid at the horizon, but Sam could easily see the glints of reflected sunlight that had caught Dean’s eye.

“Riders,” Sam said, half-questioning. He squinted, counting the glints. “More than one, less than a dozen.

“Yeah. They’re traveling off the main road,” Dean said. “D’you reckon they’re bandits?”

“It’d make the most sense.” Sam frowned a little. “Should we move on? Have they even seen us?”

“I’m not willing to hang around and find out.” Stepping out into the blazing sunlight, he glanced back at Sam. “Sorry, but I think we should ride out.”

Sam merely shrugged. Both of them had been forced to travel with less than adequate sleep before, so Sam didn’t comment. Instead, he packed his book away and stood as well. “Let’s go, then.”

=

Even with the press of urgency from the unknown riders, Sam and Dean set their pace to a fast walk. It wouldn’t do them any good to kill their horses out in the middle of nowhere. The riders, which had solidified from points of light to dark blotches against the pale desert, were now on the road behind Sam and Dean. They were, without any doubt, now being pursued.

The riders also didn’t have the same issue with preserving their horses. Within thirty minutes of leaving the waypoint, Dean reckoned that the distance between them and the strangers had been halved. Twenty minutes after that, Sam called to Dean and pointed behind them. Dean cursed when he saw that the riders were now close enough for their details to be discernible. There were seven of them, and all of them wore bandanas over their noses and mouths.

“Curse it all,” Dean said, voice barely above a growl. he reined Baby to a stop and turned her to face the oncoming riders.

Sam pulled to a stop a few yards past Dean, confused. “What—“

“We ain’t outriding them.” Dean unsheathed his sword and held it low to his side. “Might as well see what they want.”

Sam swallowed tightly, looking grim, and then nodded. He didn’t draw his sword, which was strapped to his back, but he did reach over his shoulder to touch its hilt with light fingers.

Luckily, their pursuers didn’t keep them waiting long. Soon after Sam and Dean stopped, they were surrounded. Most of the riders had swords out, but one had a pair of old, rusted pistols. One, who was covered in charms that clacked together when she moved, was seemingly unarmed.

Sam stiffened in his saddle when he saw her. “They’ve got a mage,” he whispered tightly.

Dean nodded, but didn’t respond. He also kept his sword down as he smiled at the ring of riders. “Hello, travelers,” he said smoothly. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“You scared my boy,” one of the riders said. She was short and stocky, graying hair pulled back in a braid. Her voice was cold. “Reckoned I should make you answer for that.”

She clapped a hand on the shoulder of the person next to her, who was shorter than all of the other riders. Dean had noticed him earlier, and had hoped against hope that it wasn’t the kid from the abandoned village. It seemed like he could’ve saved himself the effort.

“He was stealing from innocent people,” Sam said.

“He was tryin’ to make a livin’,” the woman - the group’s leader, perhaps - snapped back. “Water ain’t cheap ‘round these parts. He was lookin’ for things we could barter with.”

“Then he should barter with belongings that don’t already belong to other people,” Dean said. He then turned to the kid. “I told you to go to Deepwell and join the refugees.”

The kid said nothing, though his eyes shone with guilt. The woman, however, let out a bitter bark of laughter.

“We ain’t _rats_ ,” she said, a sneer audible in her words. “We ain’t gonna roll onto our backs and beg when we can get what we want in more respectable ways.”

“If you ask me, stealing is _less_ respectable than begging,” Dean said, scowling.

Growls arose amongst the riders, and some raised their weapons a little higher. Dean tightened his grip on his sword in response, but Sam lightly touched his arm and shook his head.

“Look,” Sam said, turning to address the woman. “We’d like to be able to part ways with you peacefully. How can we manage that?”

The woman didn’t even pause to think. “Give us your water,” she said, “and we won’t leave you bleedin’ out on the roadside.”

“No,” Dean said, scowl now an all-out glare. They had just enough water to make it to their destination. Giving any or all of it away would leave them risking heat sickness, or worse.

The woman’s eyes narrowed with a hidden smile. “You’re mistaken,” she said. “I ain’t askin’ for your water. I’m demandin’ it.”

Dean snarled. “And I said you ain’t getting it.”

A laugh rippled through the bandits. “Suit yourself,” the woman said, and gestured her men forward. Four of them came trotting forward, two going for Dean, and two for Sam.

Dean got his sword up in time to block the first attack, stopping it cleanly with the bright sound of iron on steel. Using a two-handed grip and straining, he shoved the bandit back and used the created space to duck under the blade of his second attacker. He slashed back, aiming low, and the rider reeled back with a hiss of breath, blood pouring freely from a gash in his belly. There was no time to enjoy the small victory, as the first bandit moved in again to take the injured one’s place.

“Burn ‘em out of their saddles!” the woman cried. She was hanging back from the fight, the kid at her side. “They can’t fight back if they’re a pile of ash!”

Even though Dean was busy exchanging blows with a bandit, he managed to snatch a glance over his shoulder. The mage was making gestures in the air, flames gathering slowly at her fingertips. Her eyes were squarely on Dean.

A line of bright pain brought Dean’s attention back to the fight in front of him. The bandit had managed to slash open the back of Dean’s forearm from wrist to elbow while he was distracted. Blood seeped from the wound at a steady pace, and it pulled whenever Dean tried to use the arm. Growling out a string of curses, Dean shifted to a one-handed hold and lashed out with a flurry of counterattacks, blade nearly a blur as he moved. The bandit struggled to keep his defenses up under Dean’s onslaught. Soon enough, Dean found a hole in his opponent’s defense, and sharply brought his blade forward and up. The bandit wheeled away on his horse, yelling, hand separated from his wrist.

Blinking sweat from his eyes, Dean looked over his shoulder again. The air was now rippling around the mage. Pulling in a breath through his suddenly-dry throat, Dean yelled for Sam.

A dead bandit lay at Sam’s horse’s feet, glassy eyes staring blankly at the sky. The final bandit was keeping his distance, pistols aimed at Sam’s chest. Sam had his sword up in a defensive stance that would be useless against a bullet. The bandit thumbed the hammer back and pulled the trigger. The pistol clicked uselessly. The bandit’s eyes widened and he fumbled with the gun, but Sam’s attention had left her. He was now looking at Dean and the mage.

A word that Dean didn’t understand shook the air, and he turned to find the mage throwing a fireball at him. He didn’t have time to even try to dodge. Yelling for Sam again, Dean closed his eyes and braced for impact.

Sam jumped off his horse and into the fireball’s path, hands stretched out in front of him. The fireball hit him with a roar of flame, engulfing him for one suspended moment, and then snuffed out of existence. Sam was still there, singed around the edges but otherwise fine. Dean let out a breath of relief.

Gunfire echoed across the stillness of the desert, and a bullet grazed Dean’s shoulder. Cursing, he ducked in belated instinct. He’d forgotten that the bandit had two pistols, not one.

Before the bandit could fire again, Sam pointed at him and shouted a word. A spark lit itself on the gun’s barrel, and a second later the gun exploded. Blinded, fingers mangled beyond recognition, the bandit fell out of the saddle to writhe and scream in the dirt. Sam stared at the fallen bandit, jaw clenched, and then turned back to the mage.

Looking more than a little shaken, the mage made another attempt at a spell. With a slashing gesture and another word, Sam sent a fireball at the mage. She screamed on impact, and when the flames guttered out a few breaths later, there was no trace left of her.

Dean took in the scattered carnage around them, then turned to look at the lead bandit. She had gone pale above her bandana. The kid at her side was staring with wide, dark eyes. Neither of them looked like they wanted to continue fighting.

Tugging a full waterskin off of his saddlebags, Dean tossed it to the woman, who easily caught it. “Head for Deepwell,” he said. “This is the last chance you get.”

The woman and kid didn’t say a word, just turned their horses south and left. Once they’d shrunk down to dark, shimmering spots in the distance, Dean slumped forward with a sigh.

“Hey,” he said, turning to Sam. “You all right?”

Sam nodded. He was leaning heavily against his gelding, dripping sweat and gasping for air. “I’ll be fine,” he said.

“Sure, and I’m a dowser,” Dean said dryly. He slid out of Baby’s saddle. “Let’s see those hands. Ain’t no way you pulled off that trick without a scratch.”

With a put-upon sigh, Sam held his hands out. Both palms were shiny with blisters. Hissing with sympathy, Dean dug through Sam’s bags in search of their medical supplies.

“You got hurt, too,” Sam said, indicating Dean’s arm and shoulder. He’d bled through his sleeve, and now his blood pattered onto the dusty road in unsteady drops.

“They’re just scratches.” Dean pulled out a length of bandage and some salve. “Let me patch you up, and then you can fuss over me as much as you want.”

Sam grumbled but complied. Dean made quick work of smearing salve over Sam’s palms and then gently but firmly bandaging them. Then it was Sam’s turn to stitch up Dean’s arm, fingers slow and only a little clumsy. By the time Dean was clean and bandaged up, the fight had caught up with him, and he was bone tired.

“Let’s go a few miles further and then camp,” he said.

Sam, who still looked like death warmed over, could do nothing more than nod. Both brothers struggled to mount up, and then quickly left the remnants of the fight behind them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dead bird. The ghost carriage. A miracle. A trap.

They slept the rest of the day away, using the wards so that both of them could sleep undisturbed. When they woke up later, feeling more or less refreshed, the sun was just beginning to slip behind the horizon. After a quick meal they set out once more, shadows stretched out beside them, the coolness of impending night brushing gently against their skin.

The night passed easily, with no signs of anyone else on the road outside of Dean and Sam. The moon, which now was only missing the barest sliver on its side, hung huge and heavy above them. It illuminated the desert in silvery shadow, the road bone-pale and plain in its light. By the time Dean and Sam reached the village that the witch planned to visit, the moon was gone, and the eastern sky had gone gray with predawn.

Nothing moved in the village. All the doors they passed were shut tight, and all the windows were dark. The streets were empty, though Dean thought he could feel eyes watching him and Sam from every window. When they reached the main square, the feeling of being watched was worse, and Dean’s shoulders were painfully tense.

“I don’t like this,” Sam said. He looked at the cracked dried earth surrounding the village’s well, and then up at the darkened houses. “Where is everyone?”

“They’re here,” Dean said. “But they ain’t showing themselves.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, but didn’t question Dean’s claim. “The witch must have scared them pretty badly.”

That was probably true, but Dean wasn’t in the mood to tolerate hiding. After the bandits the day before, his patience was threadbare at best. Gripping his sword hilt, he said in a low growl, “Witch or no, if someone doesn’t show up soon, I’ll start knocking down doors.”

The look Sam gave him was part annoyance and part concern. When Dean met his look levelly, Sam rolled his eyes and sighed. “How about we try a less violent approach first?” Sam asked.

Dean snorted and gestured at the houses around them. “Be my guest.”

Sam’s glare intensified for a moment, and he muttered something under his breath. Then he cleared his throat and, looking up at the houses, called out, “Hello?”

There was no response. Dean watched Sam, unimpressed. Sam, however, remained undaunted.

“We heard about the message you received, and we’re here to help. We’re hunters, and—“

A rasping caw, almost like a laugh, interrupted Sam. Turning, the brothers discovered a crow perched on the roof of a nearby house. It watched them with bright, intelligent eyes.

“The crow,” Sam muttered. “Do you think it’s the one Pamela told us about?”

Dean slid out of Baby’s saddle, keeping an eye on the bird as he moved. “I don’t like the way it’s looking at us.”

“Me neither.”

Still watching the crow, Dean stooped down and felt around for a rock. He soon found one that fit comfortably in his palm, and straightened back up. The crow fluttered its wings and cocked its head, but didn’t move from its spot.

“What’re you doing?” Sam asked. “Pamela said the villagers already tried—“

Dean hushed him, “I’m trying something,” he said. “Just watch.”

Sam went quiet, and Dean continued to watch the crow. It stared back. Finally, when the quiet tension became too much, Dean cocked his hand back and threw the rock. His aim was true, but the crow stepped aside, and the rock missed it by mere inches. It flapped its wings at Dean and made a noise that sounded downright insulting.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered. He went for his gun.

“Dean,” Sam said, alarmed.

“It’s connected to the witch, right?” Dean checked to make sure he had silver bullets loaded, and then clicked the chamber into place. “I don’t want it flapping off and telling her we’re here. Especially since it knows we’re hunters.”

Sam winced, and then shot a brief glance at the crow. “And you think using a silver bullet is worth it?” he asked, voice pitched low.

Dean shrugged a shoulder. “Better safe than sorry.” He thumbed back the hammer, and with one fluid movement, leveled his gun and fired.

The crow dropped like a stone, falling to the ground with a hollow thud and burst of dust and feathers. Dean holstered his pistol and gave Sam a satisfied smirk.

Sam opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by the sound of flapping wings. The crow hopped onto its feet, one wing oddly crooked but otherwise fine. It ruffled its feathers and took wing, reclaiming its perch with only a little effort.

“I can’t believe it,” Sam said, eyes wide.

“Me neither.” Raising his pistol again, Dean said, “Let’s see if it can survive that twice.”

“You’re just wastin’ bullets, boy,” a tired voice behind them said. “Stop tryin’.”

Dean was going to try again despite the advice, but Sam put a staying hand on his arm. When Dean looked over, Sam tilted his head, indicating the space behind them. Turning, Dean saw that they’d attracted a crowd.

“We tried arrows,” said a man who stood at the front of the crowd. He was old, his hair and beard white and shaggy, and he was bent over a cane that was clearly hand carved. “It’s died many times, and each time it gets right back up.”

“Yeah, but.” Dean gestured at his gun, ready to explain the silver bullets, but thought better of it. Reholstering his gun with a sigh, he said, “I had to at least try.”

The man smiled. “Y’all are hunters. I ‘spect it’s instinct to try an’ kill anythin’ that doesn’t make sense.”

“You could say that,” Sam said. He tilted his head. “Are you this village’s headman?”

“Nah,” the man said with a short laugh. “I might be in charge right now, but I ain’t no headman. He an’ his family ran off days ago. The bird spooked ‘em too much.”

At the mention of the crow, Dean looked over his shoulder at it. It was still watching them. “Can we talk somewhere else?” he asked, working to keep his voice steady.

The man nodded. “My house is nearby. If we’re gonna talk, I don’t want any pryin’ ears and eyes hangin’ round us.”

=

The man, who introduced himself as the village elder, led Sam and Dean to a small house on the western edge of the main square. The crowd of villagers followed, but didn’t try to enter the house. Instead, they stayed out on the porch, watching Sam and Dean through the window with wide, curious eyes.

“I feel like an exhibit in a menagerie,” Sam muttered.

“They’re curious,” the elder said. He lowered himself into a chair with a grunt of relief, and then gestured for Sam and Dean to do the same. “We ain’t seen hunters in a long while.”

“We ain’t in the habit of ignoring people who need help,” Dean said.

The elder tilted his head. “And do we need help?” he asked.

“You have a crow that won’t die telling you that your well is gonna get fixed tonight,” Dean said.

“In other words,” Sam said, “you tell us.”

The elder looked at the two of them, gaze bright and assessing, before sighing and shaking his head. “I can’t rightly tell you anythin’.”

Sam and Dean exchanged confused looks. “Why not?” Sam asked.

The elder was quiet for a moment, looking out at the people clustered on his front porch. “The village is divided,” he said. “Some believe this is a trap that will doom us all. Most think that a no-foolin’ miracle _will_ happen tonight.”

“Really?” Dean asked, incredulous.

“Our water stores are almost gone,” the elder snapped, giving Dean a stern look. “We stand on the edge of death. Can you blame folk for bein’ desperate for hope?”

Dean looked at the floorboards under his feet, jaw clenched, but stayed quiet. While he could understand the villagers becoming desperate under the pressure of the drought, he didn’t believe that excused such blind hope. There were dark omens at play here along with the good. How people could ignore that and simply have faith in a potential miracle, Dean would never know.

“What do _you_ think?” Sam asked the elder.

“I don’t know what to think.” The elder made a frustrated noise and leaned back in his seat. “I figured I’d just wait an’ see. Though now that we’ve got hunters here, I’m leanin’ towards the ‘doom’ idea.”

“Don’t let our presence affect you,” Sam said, leaning towards the elder. “We’re only here to observe.”

The elder raised his brows. “Truly?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, seamlessly picking up Sam’s lie. “We ain’t got any more information than you. We’re mainly curious.”

“All right.” The elder looked slightly doubtful, but he still nodded. “An’ if things go bad, I reckon y’all would be handy.”

Dean gave the elder a winning smile. “Exactly.”

Sam yawned, though he tried to hide it. Watching Sam, Dean asked, “Is there a place we can rest, sir? We’ve been traveling all night, and could use some shuteye.”

“‘Course. You can bed down here.” The elder smiled, but his eyes were solemn. “I’ve got a feelin’ that you’ll need your strength for whatever happens tonight.”

=

Sam and Dean slept, sprawled out on the elder’s living room floor in a mess of blankets and bedrolls. When they awoke, the sun was a bare, golden line on the horizon. The crowd that’d been watching Sam and Dean was gone. When Dean looked out the window, he saw what looked like the entire village standing around the edges of the main square. Everyone was turned towards the road, watching, still and quiet. The sight made the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end.

“The elder isn’t in the house,” Sam said, words soft.

“Reckon he’s outside with everyone else,” Dean said. He stepped over to the front door and swung it open. “Might as well keep watch with ‘em, yeah?”

They didn’t walk into the crowd, but stayed on the house’s front porch. No one acknowledged their presence. Huffing out a sigh, Dean leaned on the porch railing and settled in for a long wait.

Darkness swept over the desert quickly once the sun had completely set. It didn’t stay dark for long, because soon the moon rose, emerging behind the jagged silhouette of the mountains and casting everything in silver. The stars overhead looked as cold and bright as diamonds. The heat of the day leached out of the air, leaving a dry chill in its wake, but still no one moved. The villagers stood there, as night fell around them, waiting.

An hour or so after moonrise, the sound of clattering wheels drifted in from the desert, faint but unmistakable. Everyone turned to look northeast. There, in the distance, was the flicker of lantern light. It was approaching the village rapidly.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, equal parts excited and anxious. The light grew closer, and the jingle of harnesses joined the sound of rolling wheels. When it reached the village and burst into the main square, the sight had people gasping.

It was a massive stagecoach, made of unpolished ebony, pulled by a pair of huge, smoke-black horses. The lanterns set at each corner of the coach burned green instead of yellow. The driver, nearly hidden by their horses, wore a cloak with a hood that hid their face in shadow. They handled their beasts with practiced ease.

With a small flick of the reins, the driver guided the coach around the town square. It circled twice before stopping with a loud, tired creak beside the dried out well. It was situated almost directly in front of the elder’s house, so Sam and Dean had a perfect view of everything.

The crowd was still. The horses snorted, tossing their heads and pawing at the ground. The driver tied off the reins and climbed down from their seat and onto the ground. They were surprisingly short, and barely came up to one of their horse’s flank.

The driver turned their head, observing the people around them. Then, with a short, quick motion, they slipped down their hood. Dean, despite himself, felt his grip on the porch railing tighten in shock.

The driver was a girl, and barely looked like she was out of her teens. Her face was narrow, with delicate, pretty features. Her hair, a pale straw-blonde, was cropped short. As she surveyed the villagers with dark, glittering eyes, the crow came to perch on her shoulder. It clicked its beak and began to gently preen her hair. The girl took little notice.

“Hello,” the girl said, once the silence had spun out for what felt like a small eternity. Her voice carried easily over the villagers. “My name is Meg.”

She smiled, and the expression was all innocence and sweetness. “I have come, as promised, to heal your well and bring you life again.”

=

No one moved after Meg’s announcement. Dean saw more than a few awestruck expressions amongst the villagers. A figure separated itself from the crowd to stand in front of Meg. It was the elder.

“Beggin’ your pardon, miss,” he said. “But some of us have some misgivin’s ‘bout your claim.”

Meg smiled, thin and patient. “I’m happy to answer any questions,” she said.

“How d’you plan to awaken our well? Witchcraft? Spirit magic?”

“You’ve heard the rumors,” she said. Her smile widened, showing her teeth. “I’ve been called a ghost, but that isn’t true. I wander the desert as part of my mission, which led to fear in the locals. But I’m no spirit.”

“So you’re a witch, then,” the elder said.

“Clever man,” Meg said. Frightened whispers rushed through the villagers like a wind rustling a drift of fallen leaves. The space around Meg and her coach widened.

“I won’t be using witchcraft to reawaken your well,” Meg said, raising her voice to be heard. “It’ll be an act of faith.”

“Faith?” the elder repeated. “Faith to whom?”

“Or to what?” Dean muttered. Sam gave him a quizzical look, then turned back to the exchange happening in the square.

Meg’s smile was nearly patronizing now, and her voice falsely sweet as she said, “To the guardian, of course. The _new_ guardian.”

The crowd’s whispering stopped raggedly, everyone shocked into silence. Dean straightened up to his full height, and Sam leaned over the porch railing, frowning. The elder looked like he was having difficulty standing, swaying on his feet and clutching his cane in a white-knuckled grip. Meg watched this all happen, still smiling, completely unmoved.

“Yes,” she said, “the new desert guardian. The old one has abandoned you to die in this drought, like an uncaring beast. Your new guardian promises to heal the whole desert, and keep your wells full for countless more centuries. All you need to do is give it the faith you’ve given your old guardian.”

Silence reigned over the crowd. People exchanged unsure glances. When the elder finally spoke, his voice trembled. “That’s a lot to ask of our small village, witch.”

For a person with such sharp features, Meg had a very dainty laugh. “You either accept, or you die,” she said, her sweet tone clashing with her harsh words. She paused, and then tilted her head. “Unless you have another source of water I don’t know about.”

“We don’t,” the elder said grudgingly.

“I thought not.” Tossing her hair, Meg asked, “So will you doom your village and yourself to die of thirst?”

Loud protests erupted from the villagers. They sounded scared and desperate. The elder held up a hand, and the crowd slowly quieted. He then shook his head.

“I won’t kill us,” the elder said, “but I also won’t ask them to blindly change their faiths without proof.”

“You’re wise, sir,” Meg said. While her face was solemn, her eyes shone with laughter. “Consider this a reason for faith, then. And remember this: the guardian can take away as easily as it gives.”

Meg snapped her fingers. The stagecoach’s doors opened without a sound, and a pair of large, black dogs stepped out. They were mutts, a blend of shepherd and hound, muscular and brutish. When they were both out of the coach, Meg pointed, and the dogs moved to sit on either side of the well. The crow left Meg’s shoulder and perched on the top of the coach with just a few flaps of its wings. Meg watched her animals, smiling. Then she turned to look at the people surrounding her.

“Those of you easily frightened should go inside,” she said. “This spell can be a bit… overwhelming.”

A handful of people - mainly parents with small children - heeded the warning, disappearing inside without a word. The majority of the crowd stayed put. They bunched in a little closer, eager to witness the promised miracle.

Meg stepped into the coach, and the doors swung shut behind her. As soon as she was out of sight, Dean yanked on Sam’s arm and walked into the crowd. He shouldered his way forward until the only thing separating him from the square was a single line of people.

“Really, Dean?” Sam asked from his place beside Dean, sounding exasperated. People were glaring at them, and Sam turned to offer them weak, apologetic smiles.

“We needed to get closer,” Dean said. “How were we gonna see if she started throwing hex bags from all the way back there?”

The coach’s door opened again, stopping Sam from speaking. Meg came out, carrying an earthen bowl with both hands. When she freed a hand to close the door behind her, the bowl wobbled, and its contents sloshed audibly. A drop of liquid, silvery bright, fell out of the bowl. It hissed when it touched the ground.

“What is that?” Dean asked, glancing at Sam. Sam looked just as confused, though, frowning at Meg with narrowed eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like—“

Someone hushed them. Meg was now walking towards the well, chanting softly. Sam and Dean went quiet, eyes never leaving the witch as she began her work.

Meg circled the well, still chanting. Every few steps, she dipped her fingers in the bowl and flicked bright liquid into the well. When she completed her circuit, she knelt, and dipped her hand again. With slow, careful movements, she painted a sigil onto the side of the well. It was the same one from the other healed village, the same one the dead woman had been wearing. It shone with its own light.

Chanting louder now, Meg held the bowl aloft. It started to glow. An answering shine came from the sigil and the windows of the stagecoach. A ringing tone vibrated lowly in the air. It raised the hairs on the nape of Dean’s neck. It also sounded vaguely familiar.

The light slowly brightened until the square was midday-bright. With a final shout, Meg tipped the bowl, pouring its contents into the well in a steady stream. The light became blinding, and the tone crescendoed to a clear, piercing scream. The sound of panicked villagers and shattering glass was nearly lost in the chaos.

Dean squinted his eyes into slits, but he refused to close them. The light and noise had sharply reminded him of his first few nights in the desert, when Castiel was still struggling to make contact with him. The connection - and its implication - made his stomach roil with a mix of fear and disbelief. So he kept his eyes open, watching, not wanting to miss anything vital.

After a few long, agonizing moments, everything abated. The light faded to nothing, and the scream shrank to a soft whine. In a few breaths, even that was gone. Everyone blinked spots out of their eyes and shook themselves, slowly returning their scattered focus to the well.

Meg stood there, smiling, the empty bowl held loosely at her side with one hand. Her hair was in disarray, but she showed no signs of strain from casting magic. When all eyes were back on her, she gave a small bow.

“Your faith was true,” she said, straightening. She beckoned. “Come see what your new guardian has given you.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then the elder stepped forward again. He looked far from confident. Meg smiled encouragingly and waved him closer. When he stood next to her, she turned and dipped her bowl into the well. The sound of splashing was clear over the stillness of the crowd.

“Drink,” Meg said, offering the bowl to the elder. “Enjoy the guardian’s gift.”

The elder took the bowl and carefully brought it up to his face. He sniffed at its contents, and then took a small sip. His eyes widened as he swallowed. He took a second, longer drink.

The crowd erupted into shouts, jostling forward, hands outstretched and grabbing. Meg lifted both hands, stilling the villagers before they could reach the well.

“This gift will not disappear,” she said. “As long as you hold faith in your new guardian, you will prosper.”

The elder cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “Those who wanna believe may do so,” he said. He then handed the bowl back to Meg. “Me, well, I got doubts.”

Meg’s smile gained an edge. “That’s your choice,” she said, inclining her head. “But keep in mind that the guardian has no stomach for… heresy.”

A rumbling murmur shook through the villagers, and many eyed the elder with something close to hostility. Dean edged closer to the elder, hand on his sword, mind racing through possible escape routes. Sam kept his eyes on the more threatening looking villagers and braced himself for flight.

“But enough of that,” Meg said, breaking the building tension with a careless wave of her hand. “For now, I must rest. And you all should enjoy your gift.”

Offers of shelter came from the crowd, and Meg laughed as she was herded deeper into the village. Most of the villagers trailed her, talking of gifts and a possible feast. Soon the square was empty, save for Sam, Dean, and the elder.

“So it was a miracle,” Sam said, “not a curse.”

The elder grunted. “Perhaps,” he said. “Like I said, I ain’t so sure.”

“It may be a good idea to be quiet about that,” Sam said, brows wrinkling. “Especially with how everyone reacted.”

Dean growled. “Meg’s got the village wrapped around her finger, and she ain’t been here for more’n a few hours.”

“With good reason.” Sam cocked his head at the well. “She saved them all with that spell.”

Dean didn’t respond to that. Instead, he turned to the elder and asked, “Do you mind if we stay at your place for a few more hours?”

“I ain’t never said no to company,” the elder said, with a strained smile.

Sam gave Dean a puzzled look. “What’re you planning?”

“I saw how that shone while she was working her ritual,” Dean said, nodding at the stagecoach. “I wanna take a look inside. But I don’t wanna alert the lookouts.”

He eyed the dogs as he spoke. They were still sitting near the well, and Dean got the distinct feeling that they were standing guard. The crow was nowhere to be seen - it had probably flapped off after Meg - but with the dogs watching, Dean didn’t feel safe enough to start snooping around Meg’s things.

“Her altar might be in there,” Sam said thoughtfully.

“Or something just as important.”

“So y’all will wait an’ see,” the elder said. “But can we wait inside? All this excitement has got my bones achin’.”

Mumbling agreement, Sam and Dean followed the elder inside. As they walked away, Dean thought he heard a growl. He resisted the urge to look back.

=

The dogs refused to move.

As the night wore on, the sounds of the villagers’ celebration got louder. But all remained quiet in the main square, and Meg’s dogs stayed at their posts. They’d laid down a while ago, but their ears were up and alert.

“This is ridiculous,” Dean said. “Have you ever seen a pair of dogs guard something for hours like this?”

“Yes,” Sam said, never lifting his eyes from his book. “All the time. It’s what they do.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You know what I meant. It’s been hours, and neither of them have fallen asleep or wandered around or anything.”

“Witch’s dogs,” the elder said. “I ain’t surprised.”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and huffed out a sigh. His skin itched with restlessness. The answers he wanted were right in front of him, but there was no way for him to get at them unscathed. He’d never been good at waiting when what he wanted was in plain sight.

The sound of Sam closing his book made Dean look over. “You done?”

“Yeah, finally.” Sam rested a hand on the book’s cover, expression thoughtful. “That last story was definitely something else.”

“Yeah?” Dean leaned back in his chair, fully turning away from the window for the first time in hours. “Tell me.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“I’m bored outta my head, so yeah. Really.” Dean lifted a brow. “What, I ain’t allowed to be curious about this?”

“No, it’s just.” Sam stopped, taking in Dean’s stony expression, and seemed to think better of whatever he was planning on saying. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “You remember what I said about the last story having to do with the Devastation?”

Dean nodded. “And how there’s more than one guardian.”

“Right. So get this: each region had a guardian. Every forest, lake, mountain range. You name it, it had a guardian. Even the plains had one. The reason I say ‘had,’ though…”

“They’re all dead,” Dean said.

“Exactly. Most of them died in the Devastation. Only four guardians survived.”

_Three,_ a voice whispered across Dean’s thoughts. _I used to have others, but only three now._ He brushed it away with a bit of effort and no small amount of panic.

“The Devastation seems to’ve been fought _because_ of the guardians,” Sam went on, oblivious to Dean’s inner turmoil. “Someone started killing them, and the people of each region rose up to protect them.”

“Who would kill guardians?” Dean asked, stunned. From all he’d seen and heard while wandering the Great Desert, guardians were a good thing to have around. “And _why_?”

Sam shrugged, running idle fingers over the crested serpent adorning the book’s cover. “The story just calls it a shadow that led an entire army against the guardians. As for why? The best answer I’ve got is that the shadow wanted the wellsprings.”

Dean frowned. “What in the name of all that breathes is a wellspring?”

Sam shook his head. “It’s never explained,” he said. “But the story says that the shadow got sealed away before it could find any of the wellsprings.”

“I guess that’s good,” Dean said. “Though does that really have anything to do with—“

“Sorry to interrupt the history lesson,” the elder said, “but somethin’s goin’ on outside.”

Dean scrambled forward so he could look out the window. Meg’s dogs were looking down one of the village’s side streets, pointed ears pricked forward. A moment later both dogs stood and trotted away, heading in the direction Meg had gone earlier. The well - and, in turn, the stagecoach - now stood unguarded.

“Perfect,” Dean said. He looked up at Sam, who stood beside him. “Let’s go, Sammy.”

A small line formed between Sam’s brows. “I don’t know,” he said. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“We’ll be in and out before anything can happen. Now _c’mon_.”

Dean opened the front door and walked out onto the porch. After a moment’s pause, he heard Sam sigh and move to follow. Dean would grin in triumph, but he was far too focused on studying his surroundings to allow it.

All was still in the village square. It was past midnight, and the moon hung low in the western sky. Motioning for Sam to follow, Dean stepped forward, staying in the shadows, footsteps light and silent on the dirt.

The stagecoach was a blot of darkness, even in the full moon’s light. As Dean and Sam approached, the horses snorted and tossed their heads, but otherwise stayed quiet. Moving past them, Dean kept going until he was able to press his back against the side of the coach.

“That was easier than I was expecting,” Sam said, voice barely above a whisper.

Dean was equally soft when he said, “Let’s not curse it.” He reached out and touched the coach’s door handle. It was locked. “You got your picks?”

A small leather envelope tapped Dean’s shoulder. He took it with a murmur of thanks and knelt until he was level with the lock. Using the slender tools tucked away in the envelope, he went to work on the door.

“I think I heard something,” Sam whispered a few moments later.

“I’m almost done,” Dean said. He reckoned he was about halfway through the lock.

Sam glanced around, nervousness coming off of him in waves. “What if it’s Meg? She’ll kill us before we can even blink.”

“Seriously, Sammy, I’m almost through.”

“Why can’t we drop this and run? We’ll get other chances.”

“Because—“ The lock clicked open, and Dean sat back on his heels with a sigh. He ignored it for a moment to tell Sam, “It’s important because I, I think that Cas—“

“Well, well, what’ve we got here?”

Sam and Dean whirled around to find Meg standing a few feet away, smirking. Her dogs flanked her, and they were growling, ears flat against their skulls.

“Snooping, are we?” Meg said. “That’s not exactly polite.”

“Sorry,” Dean said, standing and slipping the lockpicks into his back pocket. He put on his most charming and disarming smile. “We were so impressed by your magic earlier, we just couldn’t stop ourselves from taking a peek.”

“Please,” Meg said, scoffing. All traces of sweetness had left her voice. “That’s so much bullshit that I can smell it from here.”

One dog snapped at the air at her harsh words, and the other snarled. Meg did nothing to stop them. Instead, she tilted her head and asked, “Who are you? I thought I’d killed all of the hunters in this wasted patch of dirt.”

Dean’s smile became thin and sharp. “You can call us outside help,” he said.

Meg hummed, a low, amused sound. “Feisty,” she said. “I like it.”

Dean bristled, and the dogs’ growling got louder. Sam, perhaps sensing the threat of a fight, said, “Look, we’d be happy to just walk away and forget we saw any of this, if you’re willing to let us go.”

Meg let out a short burst of laughter. “You must think I’m stupid,” she said, still chuckling a little. “Also, the way you think you have any leverage in this situation? Cute.

“Here’s how this’ll play out,” she said, resting a hand on one of her dog’s head. “Either my Cursed Hounds tear you to shreds, right here and now, or you leave the desert and don’t look back.”

“There’s no water on the road leading outta the desert,” Dean said. “We’d die either way.”

Meg’s smile was all teeth, and didn’t hold a shred of kindness. “Now you understand me.”

She waved a hand over her dogs, and with the sound of ripping flesh and splintering bones, the dogs’ forms began to shift. They doubled in size, their flesh melting away, revealing the ridges of their ribs and spines. Their fur fell out in ragged patches, and in their place were oozing sores and rotting skin. When they growled, Dean saw just how long and sharp their teeth had become.

“What sort of magic is this?” Sam asked, breathless with horror.

“The winning kind,” Meg said. Looking down at her Cursed Hounds, she pointed at Sam and Dean. “Sic ‘em.”

The Hounds lunged. Instinct made Dean draw his blade and slash at the approaching beast’s face. The roaring boom of gunfire from behind him told him that Sam had gone for his rifle. Dean’s Hound staggered away from him, yelping, a smoking gash ripped open across its face. Dean smiled mirthlessly. It seemed that iron affected these monsters.

Judging by the sound of another fired shot, silver was less effective. Dean risked taking his eyes off the Hound in front of him to check on Sam. He was being circled by his own Hound, which wasn’t even bleeding from Sam’s bullets. Sam had abandoned his rifle, and held his greatsword before him in a two-handed grip.

A snarl brought Dean’s attention back to his front just in time for him to avoid a recovered and charging Hound. It whirled right back around when it passed him, jaws snapping and snarling all the while. Dean waited until the last second before dodging again and, bringing his sword around in an arc, sunk his blade into the beast’s shoulder. The Hound howled and broke off its attack, limping back to Meg’s side.

Meg _tsk_ ed. “This won’t do,” she said.

Looking over at the Hound still warily circling Sam, she snapped her fingers. The Hound’s form flickered, and then vanished entirely. For a second, Dean thought the Hound was gone, but the continued sounds of growling told him otherwise. Sam heard it, too, and he kept his blade up even as he cast unsure glances every which way.

Dust, colored a light gray by the moonlight, puffed up on its own volition behind Sam, and a bolt of fear struck through Dean, cold and painful. Before he could form a coherent thought, Dean let out a yell of “Sammy!” and bolted forward. He shoved at Sam, making his brother stumble out of the way, and then was slammed to the ground by a heavy, invisible form.

The air rushed out of Dean’s lungs as he hit the dirt. He felt huge, clawed paws on his chest, and the Hound’s fetid breath on his face. Gritting his teeth, Dean strained to grab his blade, which he’d dropped during his fall. It was just out of reach.

Sam rushed to his aid, sword up and ready to swing, but an unseen force pinned him to the side of the stagecoach before he could reach Dean. No matter how much he struggled, he couldn’t break free.

Meg stepped into Dean’s view. She was smirking at Sam. “Sorry, kiddo,” she said, “but you’ve lost. And now you’re gonna get a lesson.”

She waved lazily at Dean. The unseen Hound pressed its paws into Dean’s chest, making him wheeze from the strain. The Hound’s claws pierced his skin, making blood bloom across his shirt. Each wound felt like a bright, hot needle.

“Leave me and mine alone,” Meg said, “and get out of the desert if you can. If not, well. You boys will suffer something a hundred times worse than _this_.”

She made her hand into a claw and twisted. The Hound pressed down further at Dean’s chest and _tore_. The pain was immediate, lines of fire down across his chest and stomach. Dean screamed as he was ripped into again and again and again. It felt like the Hound was trying to dig past Dean’s skin and all the way down to his bones, claws burning all the while. Dean thought, vaguely, that he heard Sam scream his name, but it was lost in his agony.

The last clear thing Dean heard was Meg’s low, delicate laughter, and then everything was swallowed up in pain.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares. A gift. Heretics. The fallen.

His dreams haunted him, and he couldn’t seem to wake up.

The desert was a dark void around him, the stars above as cold and sharp as glass. He had never felt so small or alone in his existence. Vaguely, he wished Castiel was there. He could light up the desert and make things less lonely.

To his left came the sound of his name. Someone was there in the distance, waving. He turned to approach them, but the sound of snarling stopped him short. Hounds, rotten and reeking of carrion, blocked the way. They snapped and lunged.

So he turned, turned away from both Hounds and stranger, and ran for his life.

=

Hours (days? Minutes? An eternity?) later, the Hounds were gone. He walked, alone, along the edge of a vast canyon. It shone a muddy red in the noonday light, stark against the desert’s yellow-brown. Was there a canyon in the desert? He couldn’t remember. He’d have to ask Castiel next time they talked.

The ground shook and he stumbled, just avoiding falling into the canyon’s depths. A river shone below, a silvery thread cutting through the rock. He swallowed tightly. Heights had never been something he enjoyed.

He blinked, and he stood on a rocky spire in the middle of the canyon, empty air all around him. The rock under his boots swayed a little in the breeze. Terror swept through him and he froze. If he moved, he thought, he would surely fall and die.

A voice pulled his gaze from the space uner his feet and to his left. Castiel stood on the edge of the canyon, duster flapping in the rising wind, hair messy and dark against the pale sky. He reached for him and beckoned.

The spire shuddered, and he shook his head. He may trust Castiel, but not enough to move.

“Don’t be afraid,” Castiel called out. “All of this is yours to control.”

Was it? It didn’t feel like it. But why would Castiel lie?

A cracking sound echoed through the canyon, and the spire lurched, making him stagger away from Castiel. He fell, and Castiel let out a cry of dismay. Oddly enough, he felt at peace, and didn’t care even when he hit the cold, splintering water of the river below.

=

Lantern light blinded Dean when he cracked his eyes open. He flinched away from the light, and then hissed as the motion caused pain to flare up along his whole body.

Sam was there in an instant, looming over Dean. His hair was tied back, and he looked tired. “Thank the Creator,” he breathed. “You’re awake.”

“Am I?” Dean took in a breath that rattled. He knew, even as he asked, that he was awake. No dream had ever hurt this much. Darkness pulled at his mind, trying to take him away from the agony of reality. “Not for long.”

Distress tightened Sam’s expression. “Dean, no, you have to hang on.”

“Can’t.” Dean closed his eyes. “‘M sorry.”

And once again his nightmares took him.

=

His dreams fragmented. He saw war and the fall of kingdoms. He saw his beloved plains on fire, a sea of flame and smoke. An army stretched to the horizon, shadowy and bloody. Their opposition was smaller in number, but were led by several shining figures. Snarls and howls, as bright and pure as bells, rang through the air.

And then everything was ash. The dead lay everywhere. A great chasm gaped in the ruins. A doe, huge and gleaming brightly, tossed its head and leaped into the nothingness, head wreathed in smoke.

The world went dark, filled with shadow and the sound of enraged dogs. Fear gripped him, and he tried to run, but something held him in place. The sound of snarling got louder as he struggled, and he soon found himself growing panicked.

Light lanced through the darkness, blinding and cleansing. Howls of pain echoed through the void. Something wrapped around him, gentle but firm. Protecting. Blinking the spots from his eyes, he saw he was in the coils of a huge, crested serpent. Its scales glittered silvery white, pure and beautiful. It regarded him with blue slitted eyes.

“ _Finally_ ,” the serpent said, voice rough and familiar. “ _I found you_.”

It was a dream. Talking to a serpent seemed logical enough. “Why would anyone be looking for me?” he asked. “I’m right here.”

“ _You called_ ,” the serpent said, matter of fact. It squeezed him in a comforting embrace. He closed his eyes, and the dizzy sense of falling swept through him.

When he opened his eyes again, Castiel was cradling his face in his hands. The tightness around Castiel’s eyes relaxed when he saw Dean looking back at him.

“Thank Mother,” Castiel said. “You were hard to pin down, Dean Winchester.”

Dean shook his head. His mind felt unanchored, his head spinning. Pain, as faint as a phantom, tingled along his chest and stomach.

“You were deeply trapped in your own dreams,” Castiel said when Dean remained quiet. He touched a hand to Dean’s forehead. “And you’re feverish. What happened?”

At first Dean didn’t know how to answer. Then a wisp of memory arose, faint but real. “Meg,” he said, voice a bare rasp. It felt rusty and unused. “Cursed Hounds.”

Castiel went pale. “The screams the other night,” he murmured.

Dean laughed unsteadily. “Yeah, that was me, I guess,” he said. “‘M fine, though. Don’t worry.”

“Dean, listen. Hounds are rife with illness and dark magic. If you were clawed—“

Dean didn’t want to talk about serious stuff. He was mainly thrilled to finally see Castiel, after all of those horrible dreams. So he brushed a hand over Castiel’s shoulder to get his attention and said, “You look prettier when y’ain’t worried, y’know?”

Castiel appeared thrown by that, expression going blank for the barest moment before it settled into something more serious. “I have plenty to worry about, Dean. You—“

“Nah, ‘m fine.” Dean meant to give Castiel a confident smile, but the expression came out shaky and lopsided. “Promise.”

Castiel sighed. “I don’t have time for this,” he muttered. “Perhaps I should go and speak to your brother.”

“Wait,” Dean said, suddenly afraid. He tried to clutch at Castiel, but his weak, trembling fingers betrayed him. “Cas, y’can’t go.”

“I must. I know you can’t fully feel it in your current state, but you’re in grave danger.”

“But—“

“Rest easy, Dean.” Castiel cupped Dean’s face lightly. His touch felt cool against Dean’s overheated face, and his eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into it. “Your dreams will leave you alone now. I swear it.”

Dean nodded shakily. He felt himself drifting, but was no longer afraid. Something occurred to him, breaking through his muddying thoughts. “We gotta talk, Cas.”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth ticked upward in a faint smile. “I know. But focus on recovering first. I’ll tell you what I can once you’re better.”

Nodding again, Dean finally let himself drift away into a dreamless sleep.

=

When Dean resurfaced from his sleep, he was staring up at a nondescript ceiling. Shadows flickered across it, hinting at a lit lantern somewhere in the room. It was night, then, or close enough that the sun was useless for light.

That didn’t tell him anything about how long he’d been sleeping.

“How—“ Dean stopped to cough. His throat felt as dry as dust. He squeezed his eyes shut and kept coughing, his body shaking with it.

Large, gentle hands helped Dean sit up, and a cup was pressed against Dean’s lips. He drank greedily, feeling the water cool him all the way down to his belly. The cup was taken away once it was drained, and Dean finally opened his eyes to find Sam standing over him.

“Hey,” Dean rasped, at a loss for anything else to say.

Sam’s expression was caught somewhere between exasperation and relief. He sighed and said, “Hey yourself.”

A quick glance at the sparsely decorated room told Dean that they were still in the village, and in the elder’s house. The elder himself was nowhere in sight. Maybe he’d turned in for the night. Looking back at Sam, Dean asked, “How long was I out?”

Sam turned to face a small table that sat next to Dean’s cot. There was a pitcher and a small bowl of fruit there, and Sam busied himself with pouring water for Dean. “A while,” he said, not looking up from his hands.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Sam,” he said, his tone a warning.

“Okay, okay.” Sam shoved the cup at Dean, nearly spilling it everywhere with his jerky movements. “Just don’t panic, okay?”

“Kinda hard not to start panicking when you say that,” Dean said.

Sighing, Sam sat down on the cot next to Dean’s hip. “You’ve been unconscious for five days.”

Dean nearly choked on his water. “ _What_?”

“Dean—“

“But what about the village? The well?” Struggling to move, Dean swung his legs over the edge of the cot and pushed himself onto his feet. “And Meg? What—?”

Dizziness overtook Dean, and his vision darkened around the edges. His knees buckled, but Sam was quick to catch him and guide him back to the cot. Once he was seated, Dean slouched forward, elbows on his knees, his breathing unsteady.

“Go slow,” Sam said, voice too gentle to be truly chastising. “No one instantly recovers from nearly dying.”

Dean blinked up at Sam. “What?”

With a shake of his head, Sam picked a piece of fruit from the bowl and sat down next to Dean. “Here,” he said, pressing the fruit into Dean’s hands. “Eat this and I’ll tell you what’s happened.”

So Dean picked at the fruit while Sam explained what happened over the last few days. Meg had driven her coach off into the desert soon after her Hound mauled Dean. The village, ecstatic over their recovered well, didn’t spare a passing thought for the strange hunters still hanging around. Which suited Sam fine, since that allowed him to take care of his wounded brother in peace.

“Stitching you up was easy,” Sam said, gesturing at Dean. A peek under the loose shirt he was wearing revealed long, twisting rows of neatly placed stitches all down Dean’s torso. “They stopped bleeding pretty quick, and I was too worried about you at the time to wonder about that.”

“They healed too quickly for it to be natural?” Dean asked, mouth full of food.

Sam nodded, and then kept talking. A fever had caught hold of Dean the following day, and only worsened over time. Sam had tried every medicine and spell he could think of. Nothing had worked.

“By the third night, you’d stopped drinking water, and were barely breathing.” Sam swallowed, looking away from Dean. “I was sure you were going to die.”

“Then why am I still here?” Dean asked, going for another piece of fruit. Despite their conversation, he was starving. “Why ain’t I a corpse right now?”

Sam smiled, looking a little sheepish. “I might have passed out while watching over you,” he said. “And then Castiel might’ve visited me.”

Dean gaped. “He what?”

“Castiel showed up in my dreams, looking worried. He said he’d tried to talk to you, but you weren’t making much sense. So he came to me.” Sam gave Dean a sharp look. “You never told me how frightening he could be, by the way.”

Dean shrugged. “He ain’t that bad,” he said. Then he grinned crookedly. “Maybe he just doesn’t like you.”

Sam huffed a sigh. “Well, I don’t think he was trying to make friends. He was too busy showing me how to make the medicine that would save your life. He bolted pretty soon after that.”

“Huh.” Dean looked down at the floor, his half-eaten fruit held loosely in one hand, forgotten. “I guess I should thank him next time we talk.”

“You better. We owe him a lot for this, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” And while he was grateful for Castiel’s help, he didn’t know how he felt about Castiel visiting Sam’s dreams. Somewhere in the back of Dean’s mind, he’d begun to think that he was special in some way that garnered Castiel’s attention. Now he suddenly wasn’t so sure.

“Well.” Sam pushed himself off the bed, pulling Dean out of his steadily darkening thoughts. “I’m going to check on the horses and stuff. You should get some rest.”

Dean scowled. “I’ve been resting for five days. I’m—“ He yawned hugely. “I’m _fine_.”

Sam smirked knowingly. “Uh huh. Sleep. I bet Castiel will be glad to see you’re better.”

“Sure, I guess,” Dean said, noncommittal. He waved Sam off. “Go on, then. If you ain’t back in a couple hours, I’m gonna come after you.”

Sam’s laughter trailed behind him as he left the room, and the sound of the front door opening and closing reached Dean a moment later. Sighing, Dean flopped back down on his cot. Even though he had been protesting, he could feel how weak and shaky his limbs were from just being awake for this short amount of time. Sleep really did sound appealing.

But was Castiel waiting for him? Did Dean _want_ Castiel to be waiting for him? It was true that the two of them had a lot to talk about, and Dean had questions that were clamoring to be answered, but couldn’t it wait until Dean felt a little less like he was falling apart at the seams with weakness?

“Better now than never,” he muttered to himself as he settled into a more comfortable position. Dean sensed that waiting could prove to be dangerous in their current situation. The welfare of the desert was at stake.

And if his feelings took a beating in the meantime, well, so be it.

=

At first, Dean thought he was alone in the dream desert. But the flickering light from behind him spoke of a fire, and when he turned around he found a small campfire burning away. Castiel sat cross-legged beside it, staring into the flames, expression drawn.

All thoughts of asking questions left Dean in an instant. “Cas?”

Castiel looked up at the hesitant sound of Dean’s voice. he blinked, and it was suddenly day. The campfire was nothing more than a pile of ash.

“Dean,” Castiel said, dipping his head in greeting. His smile was weak. “It’s good to see you doing better.”

“Thanks.” Dean looked Castiel up and down. “I wish I could say the same to you.”

Truth be told, Castiel looked terrible. His face was pale and haggard, and purple-brown marks stood out under his eyes like bruises. His shoulders had taken on an uncharacteristic slump, and he was minutely swaying where he sat. “What’s happened to you, Cas?”

Castiel shrugged and limply waved off Dean’s concern. “It isn’t important. Tell me what happened to _you_. You weren’t making much sense, last time we talked.”

While the memory of their last meeting was blurred, what Dean could remember was enough to make him flush. He’d considered Castiel to be attractive ever since they first started talking, but Dean had already decided a while ago not to say anything about it. Not only was Castiel most likely not human, but what were the odds that he would be interested? So Dean had stayed quiet.

Too bad his illness had loosened his thoughts and his tongue. 

Perhaps, if he ignored the incident, it would be like it never happened, and they could move on. Clearing his throat, Dean launched into describing what had happened at the village. Castiel was a rapt listener, head tilted and eyes narrowed slightly, keeping quiet as Dean talked. His upper lip curled back a little when Dean reached the altercation with Meg and her Curse Hounds, but Castiel didn’t say anything until Dean finished with the attack that nearly tore him to pieces.

“Curse Hounds,” Castiel murmured. His eyes were dark with what could only be fear. “Meg has grown strong, indeed.”

“What _are_ they?” Dean asked. He’d sat down near Castiel during his tale, and now wrapped an arm around his own knees. “Sam didn’t recognize them, and he’s usually an encyclopedia about magical shit.”

“They’re an older type of magic,” Castiel said. “An evil kind. That the witch has gained control of them is nothing but bad news.”

“Evil magic,” Dean repeated. Something occurred to him, and goosebumps raced along his skin as he turned to Castiel and asked, “What did she do to the well?”

Castiel shrugged weakly. “She revived it. The price of the revival, though, is heavy.”

“Heavy how?”

“I cannot say.”

“Why not?”

“All I can say is that you shouldn’t partake in any wells that Meg has touched.” The look Castiel gave Dean seemed to cut right through him. “No more than you already have, at least.”

Dean shook his head. frowning. “Then what are we gonna do for water?”

Castiel didn’t answer. He merely stared at Dean, eyes roving over his face, searching. After a minute he sighed and turned away.

“I’ll grant you a boon,” he said. “Will you accept it?”

“Will it let us avoid the wells?” Dean asked after a moment’s thought.

“Yes.”

“Then yeah.” Dean held out a hand towards Castiel. “Go for it.”

Castiel latched onto Dean’s hand, grip strong despite how weak he looked. Silver light flared where their skin met, and while it wasn’t painful, it was still uncomfortable. Dean instinctively went to flinch away, but Castiel’s grip only tightened. he didn’t release Dean until the light died out completely. When Dean examined his hand he found a round, silver mark neatly placed in the center of his palm.

“What,” he muttered, but the heavy weight of a body slumping into him cut off his question. Castiel had collapsed against his side. “Cas?”

“Use that on your waterskins,” Castiel said. His voice shook. “It’ll help.”

Dean clenched his marked hand absently. “Thank you, but. What about you?”

Castiel’s smile was brief and strained. “I will survive. I must.”

“Cas—“

“I’m sorry. You had questions, and I promised answers, but they’ll have to wait. I’m too tired.”

“That’s fine, but—“

“Follow Meg.” Castiel reached up and pressed shaking fingers against Dean’s temple. “We’ll talk again. Later. When I’m better.”

Dean wanted to protest - Castiel was weak, and Dean didn’t want to leave him like that - but the familiar sense of falling was already seeping into him. He had time to call out Castiel’s name, and then he was gone.

=

A burning itch greeted Dean when he jolted awake. His arm felt it was on fire from his fingertips to his elbow. Throwing back his blankets, he saw silver fire lighting up his veins. The mark on his palm flickered in time to his pulse.

Muttering a curse, Dean scrambled off his cot, weakness forgotten in the wake of his discomfort, which was starting to border onto pain. His and Sam’s packs, waterskins included, sat beside the bedroom door. He slid to his knees beside the packs and grabbed the nearest skin with his marked hand.

The relief was immediate. Light flared beneath his grip, a visible flash between his clenched fingers. The mark - and the burning sensation - was still there when he dropped the waterskin, but it was fainter. Dean reached for the next skin without hesitation, just wanting the itch of this spell gone from under his skin.

By the time he reached the last waterskin, the light was gone from his veins, and the mark was nothing more than a vague shimmer on his hand. He sighed when he picked up the last skin, the discomfort and mark disappearing in one final flash of light. The weakness from earlier came back to him, and it made him rock back on his heels. Leaning against the nearest wall, Dean took in his - well, Castiel’s - handiwork.

The waterskins didn’t look different, save for the stoppers, which now had a subtle shine to them. Curious, Dean picked up a skin and was surprised when it sloshed, heavy with water. It had been empty when Dean last touched it.

“So this is what you meant by a boon,” Dean said quietly. “We really owe you, Cas.”

“Dean?”

Dean looked up, startled. Sam was leaning against the room’s doorframe, watching him, brow furrowed. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“Cas sent us a gift.” Dean tossed a waterskin to Sam, who caught it with ease. He raised his eyebrows at the weight of it. “Reckon we don’t have to worry about water on the road anymore.”

Sam looked more confused than thrilled. “There’s a full well right outside.”

“Yeah, and Cas said to leave it alone, so I ain’t touching it.”

“Why?”

Dean’s mouth set into a tense line. “Dunno. He didn’t say.”

Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Dean cut him off. “‘Sides, I think we can give him a little trust, with how he saved my life. Agreed?”

There was suspicion lingering in Sam’s eyes and in the tightness of his shoulders, but he still nodded his agreement.

“Good. Now.” Dean stood with a grunt, using the wall beside him to help lever himself up. “Where d’you suppose Meg ran off to?”

Sam snorted. “I don’t have to guess. She’s off to Deepwell.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She announced as much right before she drove off. And she’s planning on saving every well between here and Deepwell.”

“Shit.” Castiel may not have specified what was wrong with Meg’s magic, but Dean was sure this was bad news. “We gotta go, then.”

“Whoa, wait.” Sam caught Dean by the shoulders, stopping and steadying him in one motion. “You can hardly stand. I doubt you can ride right now now.”

Dean wanted to protest, but exhaustion weighed his limbs down like lead. The pain from his injuries was also returning, a quick, aching beat throbbing in his torso. Sighing, he let Sam lead him back to his cot. “We’re leaving tomorrow morning though, got it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam said, sounding like he was humoring Dean. “If you get up, that is.”

“Watch me,” Dean said, cocky smile on his lips even as he closed his eyes. The last thing he heard was Sam bidding him good night.

=

Just like he said we would be, Dean was up shortly after dawn. Sam was awake, too, and looked unsurprised to see his brother shuffling around the house. Dean was a stubborn man, even when he was recovering from near-fatal injuries.

After a quick, near silent breakfast, Dean and Sam left the elder’s house. The village was still in the slanted early morning light, as most of the people went to sleep for the day. The horses, saddled and loaded up already, were hitched to the porch railing. Dean rushed down the porch steps, eager to greet his mare.

“Hey, Baby,” he murmured, “didja miss me?”

“She was terrible,” Sam said. “Fidgeted and complained every time I tried to feed or groom her.”

“That’s because you do it wrong. Isn’t that right, Baby?” Baby flicked her tail and lipped at Dean’s duster affectionately.

“Wait,” Dean said when they saddled up. “Where’s the elder? I haven’t seen him since I woke up.”

Sam was quiet as he swung into his saddle, and took longer than usual to get settled. “He,” Sam said, not meeting Dean’s eyes. “He left.”

Dean gaped. “What?”

“Meg reminded the village about the new guardian’s stance on blasphemy before she left. It didn’t take long for the villagers to get hostile towards the elder after that.” Sam kicked his gelding into a trot as he spoke, mouth drawn in a hard line. “I had to, um, discourage them from actually doing anything.”

Which probably meant Sam flashed his gun and made the villagers balk from an all out riot. Urging Baby to follow Sam, Dean asked, “And the elder left after that?”

Sam nodded. “That very night. Said that we were free to stay until you recovered enough to move, and then rode south.”

“To Deepwell.” Dean sighed. “With Meg going the same way, I got a feeling that he ain’t gonna be any safer around there.”

“Yeah.” While his voice remained perfectly steady, Sam picked up his pace a bit. “Same here.”

=

With Castiel’s gift, Dean and Sam never had to stop for water. Their skins refilled themselves the moment they ran empty. Because of this, Dean wanted to avoid the road - and the villages - entirely, just in case they attracted unwanted attention. Sam, however, wanted to see the villages, just in case Meg did something besides reviving wells. Dean didn’t have a good argument against that, so they traveled down the main road and through each village they came upon.

Everywhere they went, the people were still reeling over their recovered water. They barely marked Sam and Dean’s presence, which suited them just fine. They just wanted to pass on through as quickly as they could.

One thing Dean didn’t like, when he discovered it, was the violent response to people who questioned Meg’s claim of a new guardian. Each village had an instance of either beating a “heretic” to near death, or driving them out of the village entirely. One such victim that Dean saw was missing an eye, and his face was mottled with bruises. He flinched away when Dean tried to ask questions. It angered Dean, seeing such fanaticism over a being that no one had even seen, and he told Sam as much that night when they set up camp.

“Have you tried talking to Castiel about it?” Sam asked. “He said he represents the old guardian. maybe he knows something.”

Dean shrugged. “Would if I could,” he said. “He’s been quiet recently.”

Sam frowned a little. “Is that unusual?”

“A little.” Out of curiosity (and a little concern), Dean had tried calling Castiel the other night. While Dean had dreamed of the desert, empty and dark, Castiel had never appeared. That had unnerved Dean more than he cared to admit, and he was hesitant to try again.

Sam grunted, stirring the embers of their small campfire with a stick. “Well, we’ll reach Deepwell tomorrow night,” he said. “Maybe he’ll make an appearance then.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, looking into the fire and away from Sam. “Maybe.”

=

Castiel did appear that night, without Dean trying to summon him. He collapsed as soon as the dream manifested, and Dean barely had a chance to catch him.

“Shit, Cas,” Dean said, gripping tightly at Castiel’s trembling frame. “What happened?”

“Tired,” Castiel said with a gasp. “Just tired.”

Dean glanced around them. They stood on a featureless, flat stretch of earth, the ground made of hard gray stone. The sky above them was overcast, a blank, steel gray dome. Castiel must not have had the energy to add any further details into the dream. Sighing, Dean guided them both to sit on the ground. “Why are you here, then, and not getting some rest?”

Castiel’s head lolled on Dean’s shoulder. “This is important.”

“More important than your wellbeing?”

“Deepwell’s well has been revived.”

Castiel sounded utterly defeated at the admission, and it made Dean pause. “I’m guessing that ain’t good.”

Castiel shook his head, a limp motion that Dean could barely feel. “It’s the beginning of the end.”

“Well,” Dean said, eyebrows raised, “that’s a little ominous.”

The laugh Castiel let out was hollow and weak. “With good reason,” he said.

Dean, with nothing good to say, wrapped an arm around Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel sighed, a thin, breathy sound, but didn’t immediately talk.

“She’ll be heading for Fallowfield next,” Castiel finally said. “The witch. And Salvation after that.”

Dean blinked down at the top of Castiel’s head. “The drought wasn’t on them, when Sam and me rode through.”

“Deepwell and its villages were like small stones starting a rockslide. Things have picked up speed. Fallowfield has begun to lose water. Salvation is not far behind.” With a faint growl, Castiel added, “Meg will surely take advantage of that.”

“Then we’ll just have to stop her,” Dean said, with a confidence he didn’t feel. “We’ll check on Deepwell and then keep moving.”

“Good.” Castiel lifted his head just enough to meet Dean’s eyes. “And when you reach Deepwell, tell Pamela that I am sorry.”

Dean frowned a little. “Sorry for what?”

Castiel shook his head, his smile lopsided and sad. “Later. I know that I say that often, but… later.”

Recognizing the beginning of a dismissal, Dean straightened up.”Cas—“

“I’ll tell you what I can, next time.” Castiel pressed light fingers to the side of Dean’s face. “I’m growing weary of all this secrecy.”

=

Despite Castiel’s visit, Dean didn’t wake up until dawn. Apparently Castiel wanted to make sure Dean got enough sleep. Cursing, Dean wasted no time in rousing Sam and explaining what had happened. They were packed and riding out within minutes, pushing their horses as much as they dared. By the time the sun was touching the horizon and making the western sky bleed red, Deepwell was in sight.

Everything looked all right as they rode into town, the houses ramshackle but intact. Then they reached the main square, and what awaited them stopped them short.

The fountain was filled to the brim, Meg’s mark on proud display, but the statue in the center was in ruins. Cracks raced up the length of the serpent’s body, and its teeth and eyes had been chipped away. The human half of the statue was completely gone, pulled down from its anchoring. Its pieces were scattered across the square.

“Dean,” Sam said, sounding scared. Tearing his eyes away from the defaced statue, Dean saw that Sam was staring at Pamela’s house. The banner above the door had been torn down, and the door itself hung lopsidedly from a single hinge.

Biting back a curse, Dean jumped off of Baby and ran for the house, Sam onyl a step or two behind him. The interior of the house was dim with the fading daylight, but Dean could still make out the forms of smashed and overturned furniture. Heart in his throat, Dean motioned for Sam to check the front room as he went deeper into the house.

Everything past the kitchen appeared untouched, and moments later Sam called for Dean. He was in the living room, which looked like a wind storm had gone through it. Pamela was huddled in the far corner, one hand clutching a knife, the other pressed tight against her bloodstained belly.

“What took y’all so long?” Pamela asked, tilting her head towards Dean with a shaky grin. “I thought I’d have to stitch this up all by my lonesome.”

Dean smiled despite himself. “I woulda paid to see that.”

“Help me with her,” Sam said, kneeling at Pamela’s side. Dean took her other side, and together they lifted her, trying to keep her as steady as possible. She still hissed in pain, despite their best efforts.

“What happened?” Dean asked as they settled Pamela on the couch, which was still more or less intact. He then went looking for a lantern to light.

“That _witch_ showed up and did somethin’ to the well,” she said. She groaned through clenched teeth when Sam let her lay down on her own. “There’s a medical kit in the kitchen, by the way. ‘Less they stole it.”

“Meg revived the well?” Sam asked as Dean lit a candle and took it with him to fetch the kit. He heard Pamela snort.

“She put water in it, sure, but she didn’t _fix_ it. After she left, I investigated.”

“And?” Sam asked. Dean listened intently even as he rifled through the kitchen cabinets.

“When I touched it, it felt,” Pamela paused, and that was when Dean discovered her med kit. “It felt wrong, somehow. Like quicksilver.”

“Quicksilver,” Dean repeated as he came back into the living room. Sam looked his way, and Dean tossed him the kit so he could get to work. “Didn’t one of Missouri’s kids mention that stuff?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, frown as he peeled back Pamela’s shirt from her wound. It was a gash in her side, as long as the span of someone’s palm. It had stopped bleeding, but tugging the shirt away from it caused fresh blood to flow. Pamela, to her credit, merely grimaced, and Sam gave her a reassuring pat as he went digging for what he needed to help patch Pamela up. “But quicksilver is, like its name suggests, silver. The water in all of the wells is clear.”

“I felt what I felt,” Pamela said, bristling. “You ain’t makin’ me say any different.”

“We’re not saying you should,” Sam said, voice gentle. He threaded a needle with deft fingers. “Now hold still. This’ll probably poke a little.”

“What happened after you sensed the quicksilver?” Dean asked, trying to distract Pamela while Sam stitched her up.

“I told the villagers,” Pamela said. Her face was impassive, but her fingers twitched at each pass of Sam’s needle. “They didn’t react well.”

Dean took in the broken furniture and decorations scattered around them. “That may be understating it a little.”

Pamela’s laugh quickly morphed into a groan, and Sam paused so she could catch her breath. It was a long moment before she started talking again.

“They called me a heretic, a follower of a dead guardian. So they decided to punish me.”

“That’s horrible,” Sam said, scowling. He tied off the stitches and rocked back on his heels. “I’ve never heard of people going so violent so quickly.”

“People were desperate, and given a miracle.” Pamela said mildly, touching Sam’s handiwork with light fingers. “They don’t like someone condemnin’ their chance at life. Thanks, by the way.”

Sam shrugged. “Just focus on recovering, yeah? We got clean water, food, whatever you need.”

“I’m gonna check around outside and make sure we’re clear,” Dean said, abruptly pushing away from the wall he’d been leaning on and heading down the hall. “I’ll be back.”

Truthfully, hearing what the townspeople did to Pamela made him angry. She was their dowser, and had probably helped Deepwell and its surrounding villages countless times. For them to turn on her so easily was sickening to think of.

The evening air helped settle his roiling thoughts a little, and Dean breathed it in in long, deep pulls. He then stepped off the front porch and started walking around the fountain. Maybe the brief exercise would help calm him down.

Looking directly at the fountain and its destroyed statue troubled Dean, so he kept his gaze on his boots instead. He kicked at a stone that lay in his path and watched it skitter away. It stopped against a fragment of statue, and before he knew it, Dean was looking into a pair of stone-carved eyes.

Familiar eyes.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean whispered, feeling like the breath had been punched out of him. He covered his mouth with light, shaking fingers.

For laying there, shattered and fallen, was a statue of Castiel.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Storytelling. Planning. Witch's brew. A disappearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: brief, casual ableist language in this chapter!
> 
> Also, I'm aware that it's been a while since I updated. I posted an explanation on my tumblr, but what it boils down to is that WITD will update once a month, near the beginning of the month, until further notice. But on the bright side, we're almost done.

Sam and Pamela were talking quietly about the events of the last few days, but were quick to look up when Dean strode in. He had no idea what his expression looked like, but it was enough to make Sam’s face pinch into a frown.

“What was the statue?” Dean asked, unable to get rid of the note of harsh fear in his voice.

“The fountain?” Pamela asked, tilting her head.

“Yeah. There’s an inscription, but Meg’s cursed sigil is covering it.”

Pamela’s brow furrowed a little above her blindfold, and she asked, “Is it important?”

“It might be,” Dean said sharply. His patience, already worn thin by his earlier shock, was almost gone.

Pamela opened her mouth, still looking confused, but Sam rested a gentle hand on her arm. “It’s easier to answer him first and ask your own questions after,” he said. “Trust me, I know.”

Huffing out a sigh, Pamela nodded a little. “Fine,” she said. “The statue is - _was_ \- a depiction of the guardian and Emmanuel, the first dowser.”

The blood drained out of Dean’s face, and his hands started to shake. The serpent of the paired statues was definitely the guardian, which meant that Emmanuel— and _Castiel_ —

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Dean muttered. A tangle of confusion, hurt, and anger roiled in his chest. Castiel had lied to him. Dean had trusted him, and Castiel had thrown that trust right back in his face. Now, Dean wanted to know why.

Luckily, Dean had a way to directly ask. Turning on his heel, he left the living room and went deeper into the house, towards the bedrooms.

He heard Sam call his name, and then his heavy footsteps as he gave chase. Dean didn’t stop moving until Sam dropped a hand on his shoulder and forced him to stay still and face him.

‘What’s going on?” Sam asked, eyes searching Dean’s face. “You’re acting like you’re on the trail of a vamp or something.”

Dean sighed and looked away, one hand resting on the bedroom’s door handle. “I dunno if I can explain right now,” he said. “I gotta talk to Cas first.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Right now?”

“I ain’t in the mood to let it sit and wait.”

“Dean—“

“Nope, I ain’t hearing whatever warning you’re gonna give me.” Opening the door, Dean stepped into the bedroom and crossed his arms, meeting his brother’s gaze squarely. “Now either help me out or get out of my way.”

Sam studied Dean for a long moment, and then, with a heavy sigh, he stepped forward and touched Dean’s temples with light fingers. Light flashed briefly along Sam’s hands, and Dean felt himself grow heavy with the urge to sleep.

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret later,” Sam said softly.

“I know what I’m doing,” Dean mumbled. Sam snorted in reply, and then helped Dean into bed before he was fully unconscious.

=

The mountain pass surrounded him when the dream came into focus, painted a dull orange with the setting sun. The plains to the east were already in shadow, while the desert was still a blaze of light. Night, though, would come soon enough.

Castiel leaned against the rock wall of the pass, watching Dean. He looked better. He still had circles under his eyes, but they were fainter, and there was color in his cheeks. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were crinkled at the corners as he looked at Dean.

“This is a surprise,” Castiel said, sounding more pleased than anything else.

Dean hated ruining Castiel’s calm, especially when he still looked so tired but his need for answers drove him forward. “We need to talk, Cas.”

Something in his voice made Castiel go still, and all traces of a smile faded away from his face. “What about?” he asked, slow and wary.

Dean crossed his arms over his chest, and kept his voice steady as he said, “You haven’t been completely honest with me.”

Castiel’s face went blank in brief confusion. “I’ve never lied to you,” he said.

“You told me you weren’t Emmanuel.”

“And I’m not.”

“I’ve seen Deepwell’s statue,” Dean snapped. “I asked Pamela. Either you’re Emmanuel’s long lost twin, or there’s something you ain’t telling me.”

Castiel’s jaw tightened, and his hands curled into fists, but his eyes were dark with resignation. “Dean—“

But Dean plowed on, talking over Castiel. “I trusted you, Cas. Even though I couldn’t figure out what you were. But then I find this out, and I can’t help but wonder what else you haven’t told me.”

“Dean.”

“Are you a shifter? Some sort of spirit? What—?”

“ _Dean_.”

That single word, backed with the threatening rumble of Castiel’s true voice, broke Dean off midsentence. Nothing had physically changed about Castiel , but he seemed bigger, somehow. Dominating. He was watching Dean steadily and impassively.

“If you would allow me to speak,” Castiel said, “I would gladly explain myself.”

So Dean shut his mouth, face flushing a little, thoroughly chastised. Castiel narrowed his eyes, but when the silence held, he sighed and glanced away.

“I didn’t tell you, Dean, because who I am - _what_ I am - has been taken advantage of before. It’s being used as we speak. So can you blame me for my caution?”

Castiel glanced over, and Dean shook his head. Castiel gave him a brief smile before looking away again. He took a deep breath before he spoke again.

“When James Emmanuel Novak passed away, he gave the desert guardian permission to use his form as he deemed fit.”

Castiel turned and met Dean’s eyes squarely. “Ever since, I’ve used his form as a vessel, to help me communicate with the humans within my realm.”

Dean knew what Castiel was saying - had guessed it, even - but hearing it was still surprising. Swallowing tightly, Dean tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“You like our tales,” Castiel said when Dean remained speechless. He nudged Dean to sit, and then followed suit. “Let me tell you one. The most important one you’ll ever hear.”

=

To make the world, the Creator breathed life into the wellsprings, and the wellsprings, in turn, poured life into the world. Birds and beasts and people came into being, and the Creator smiled down at them all.

Not wanting Her creations to be without protection, the Creator made the guardians. They were each given a region to watch over and love in Her stead. To four of these guardians, She gave the extra responsibility of hiding and protecting the wellsprings. For they were the sources of the world’s life and magic, and to let them fall into evil hands would be calamitous.

Satisfied, the Creator left the world to its own devices, with Her guardians dutifully watching over it. All was quiet for millennia.

Then, one day, a shadow learned of the existence of the wellsprings, and made it his goal to find and control them. Using magic that tainted and twisted all it touched, he created an army of cursed creatures. They swept across the land like a blight, and destroyed any guardians they discovered. And yet they could not find the wellsprings.

The people of the land, enraged by the deaths of their beloved guardians, rose against the dark army. The remaining guardians led them to both avenge their siblings and protect the remaining untouched lands. They met in a final, terrible clash in the plains. The fighting rent the earth and set fire to the grasses, and countless perished.

The battle lasted for nearly five days, with no clear victor. Then, on the evening of the fifth day, a guardian came upon the shadow who had started everything. Using an ancient spell and the help of her remaining siblings, the guardian threw herself and the shadow into a cage woven with magic, and sealed it behind them.

And thus the war ended. The dark army fell apart without their leader, and were quickly defeated. The people of the land returned to their homes to heal and rebuild. The guardians, reduced to only the four that protected the wellsprings, mourned the loss of their siblings, but returned to their duties. For the world would move on, and it would need protecting.

=

“We,” Castiel continued, “well, _I_ was sure that the problem had been dealt with for good. But, judging by the events unfolding in my desert, I was wrong.”

The night had passed during Castiel’s storytelling, and the sky was beginning to lighten in the east with the encroaching dawn. Dean shook his head, trying to brush off the spell Castiel’s story seemed to have cast on him. “I don’t understand,” he said.

Castiel opened his mouth, but then grimaced and pressed a hand against his chest. A look of frustration crossed his face, and he said, “I can’t explain any further than I have.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?” Irritation flared in Dean’s chest, and he couldn’t help but scowl faintly. “Cas—“

Castiel cut him off with a shake of his head. “I can’t explain,” he said again. “I’m sorry.”

Dean huffed out a short sigh. While Castiel had explained a good amount of things with his tale, Dean wasn’t sure how much could be actively useful in stopping whatever Meg was doing to the desert. He was about to ask if there was _anything_ Castiel could tell him, but Castiel spoke first.

“I can’t tell you,” he said slowly, like he was thinking aloud. “But perhaps I can _show_ you.”

“What?”

And then Castiel was right there in Dean’s space, eyes sharp, mouth set in a firm line. He reached up and pressed his fingers against both of Dean’s temples.

“Brace yourself,” Castiel murmured. “This may be a little disorienting.”

Before Dean could ask any questions, light flared behind Castiel’s eyes, and there was an odd pulling sensation behind his ribcage. He seemed to fall forward without moving, both towards and _into_ Castiel. The world blurred and darkened.

When his vision cleared, he was in a small, dark room. Fire flickered before him, casting weird shadows against the wooden walls. A dull pain throbbed in his chest, but it had been there for so long that it was easy to ignore. Only the witch’s ministrations created new pain.

Dean blinked. The last thought had been foreign, a whisper across his mind. He tried to turn his head to look around, but some impulse stayed him.

_Moving is tiring_ , a faint voice said. _And this spell also costs energy, so please stay still._

Dean squinted at the sound of that other voice, baffled. _Cas?_ he thought.

A flicker of amusement, as brief and bright as sunlight bouncing off water. _Yes._

_Where are we?_

_We are currently where_ I _am. You’re looking through my eyes._

Dean didn’t answer, but his amazement must have translated to Castiel, because there was another flash of amusement. It was followed by something duller - exhaustion. _Like I said, it costs me to show you this. So please, look while you can._

So Dean looked. There were no distinct features that he could see - there were some small windows, but they were covered with heavy curtains - and it was hard to see past the fire and into the dim room. Dean squinted, but it did little good.

_What’s with the fire, Cas?_

There was a long, heavy pause, before Castiel said, _It surrounds me in an unbroken circle._

Disgruntlement coursed through Dean. _That doesn’t answer my question._

A mental equivalent of a hum brushed across Dean’s thoughts. _Doesn’t it?_

_No, it—_ And then something clicked. _Wait. Is this a prison?_

_Yes._ Castiel’s voice practically sang with confirmation and praise. _Yes, you’ve got it._

And then everything was fading, the room dimming further and the flames winking out. Dean felt that strange pull again, but this time it moved him backwards. He blinked, and he found himself back in his own body, the mountain pass surrounding him once more.

“My apologies,” Castiel said. He was swaying a little where he knelt in front of Dean. “I was nearing the end of my strength, and you’d seen what needed to be seen.”

Dean reached out and placed a steadying hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Cas. You did good.”

Castiel’s smile was thin, but the way he leaned into Dean’s touch spoke volumes. Dean squeezed his shoulder and then asked, “What was that trap all about? How does a ring of fire keep something that controls water in one spot?”

“It isn’t a normal fire.” Castiels expression sobered, but he kept his shoulder pressed against Dean’s hand as he spoke. “It’s created from foul magic that’s as old as my siblings and me. To attempt to pass through the flames would seriously injure me, or quite possibly kill me.”

Dean grimaced. “Then how do we break you out?”

Castiel straightened up, Dean’s hand slipping off his shoulder. His eyes were distant as he looked westward, into his desert. “There is a way,” he said.

“Yeah? What is it?”

Castiel looked equal parts frustrated and helpless as he shook his head. “It would take me too long to explain. It’ll be easier if you return to Fallowfield. Missouri will know exactly what to tell you.”

Just thinking about the distance to Fallowfield made Dean want to grumble. He and Sam had traveled far into the desert. To retrace their steps now felt like they were losing progress. Still, it couldn’t be helped. If going back to Fallowfield would save Cas and the desert, then they would do it.

“We’ll ride out first thing,” Dean said. A thought occurred to him, and he paled a little. “What if Meg gets there first?”

Castiel’s eyes were shuttered and his smile was mirthless as he replied, “Then pray to the Creator that the Moseley clan survives the ordeal.”

=

Castiel let him go soon after that, and Dean woke up to early morning sunlight slanting into the bedroom. The sound of a bustling crowd drifted in from outside, people chatting and laughing as they headed home to sleep away the heat of the impending day. Dean was taken aback by the general cheer of the townspeople. How could they go on as if everything was all right when they’d rioted and attacked their dowser just the day before?

“‘Guess they think water’s more important than a human life,” Dean muttered to himself as he rolled out of bed. It was times like this that made him wonder if the line separating humans from monsters was more than a little blurred.

Brushing away such dark thoughts, Dean stretched and then left the bedroom in search of Pamela and Sam. He found them in the kitchen, which had been ransacked during yesterday’s attack. Sam had righted the overturned table, and Pamela now sat at it, staring in the general direction of the window. Sam was rifling through the cabinets, looking, presumably, for food.

Pamela cocked her head when she heard Dean’s boots on the kitchen floor. “Mornin’, sleepyhead,” she said.

Dean bobbed his head politely, even though Pamela couldn’t see it. “Mornin’.”

“Sam said you were dream-walkin’.” A grimace of pain flickered across Pamela’s face as she leaned forward, and she pressed a hand to her stomach. “I didn’t know you had the knack.”

“I don’t.” Dean sat down opposite to Pamela and jerked his head in Sam’s direction. “Sammy’s the one with all the magic, not me. I get outside help.”

A crooked smile pulled at Pamela’s lips. “I hope they’re givin’ you some sweet dreams, if they’re gonna keep you sleepin’ for so long.”

“They ain’t exactly sweet,” Dean said, returning Pamela’s smile knowingly, “but they sure are informative.”

Sam came to the table, carrying his findings. He carefully arranged it all on the tabletop, revealing a pile of food that mainly consisted of dried fruit. The rioters had taken everything else. “Sounds like you reached Cas last night,” Sam said to Dean as he sat down.

“Sure did,” Dean said. “And he had a lot to share.”

“Wait a moment,” Pamela said, eyebrows raised and leaning forward more despite her wound. “Didja say Cas? As in _Castiel_?”

Sam glanced between Dean and Pamela, brows drawn together in a confused frown. “Dean, how does she know about Cas?”

Dean grinned and leaned back in his seat, the picture of confident ease. “Go ahead and eat,” he told them. “It’s gonna be a long story.”

=

Dean expected the silence that followed him retelling his dream. What he hadn’t expected was Sam letting out a short bark of a laugh and saying, “I knew it.”

Dean arched an eyebrow at his brother. “Did you?”

“Well, sure.” Same gave him an expectant look. “You knew, too, right? Or you guessed, at least.”

Now Dean was frowning, thinking back on their travels for clues. When nothing really came to mind, he said, “What makes you say that?”

“Back in the village, when you were trying to break into Meg’s coach, you mentioned Cas.” Sam tilted his head. “You must’ve guessed that Meg had him, and why else would Meg have Cas?”

“Oh.” Now Dean remembered. He’d forgotten his idea when the Cursed Hounds attacked. And then he was far too busy to pursue it. Shaking his head, he said, “There’s a difference between guessing and having your guess confirmed, y’know?”

Sam nodded. “I know. I’m just explaining why I’m not shocked, is all.”

“You might not be, but _I_ am,” Pamela said, scowling. She reached over and smacked Dean’s shoulder with frightening accuracy, making Dean yelp.

“What was that for?” Dean asked, rubbing his abused arm.

“For not sayin’ nothin’ the last time you were here,” Pamela said. “It never crossed your mind to mention your weird dreams? Ever?”

Dean hunched his shoulders. “I didn’t want people to think I was crazy,” he muttered.

Pamela’s frown was more sympathetic than angry. She shook her head and turned away, muttering something Dean didn’t quite catch.

“Look,” Sam said, eyes flicking from Pamela and Dean. “It’s already happened, and we can’t go back and change it. So can we talk about our next move?”

“Yeah,” Dean said after a beat. He cleared his throat and relaxed back in his seat. “D’you think we can get to Fallowfield without any problems?”

“Probably.” Sam stared at the table as he spoke, brow slightly furrowed in thought. “Cain’s village might be an issue, but that’s all I can think of between here and Fallowfield.”

“If anything looks off, we can go around.” Looking over at Pamela, Dean asked, “You’re coming with us, right?”

Pamela raised his eyebrows. “Me?”

“Yeah. You ain’t exactly safe here in Deepwell.”

Pamela didn’t respond immediately. She sat quietly, head bowed and hands folded in her lap, thinking. The sound of the crowd outside was gone, and all was still.

When Pamela looked up again, she was smiling sadly. “My place is here,” she said.

Dean and Sam shared alarmed looks. “But you could get killed,” Sam said.

“You can get killed doin’ just ‘bout anythin’.” Pamela’s smile widened into a grin for a second, and then she became solemn again. “I made a promise, to the guardian and myself. As long as Deepwell stands, it’ll have a dowser.”

Dean scowled. “But—“

A gentle grip on his elbow quieted him. When Dean looked over, Sam shook his head quickly.

“We respect your decision,” Sam said to Pamela, eyes still on Dean. Dean let out an annoyed huff and looked away. After a moment he nodded jerkily, and Sam released his arm.

“But we ain’t leaving you unprepared,” Dean said. “We’ll give you some of our rations. Oh, and a waterskin.”

Pamela tilted her head. “Why would I need a skin? I got plenty already.”

“Because these make their own water,” Sam said.

“Cas gave them to us,” Dean said when Pamela’s brows drew together in confusion. “He warned us away from any wells Meg’s touched, too.”

“So she _did_ do something,” Pamela said, a hint of vindication in her voice.

“Yeah,” Dean said, pushing himself to his feet. Before he left the room to get Pamela some supplies, he added, “And I got the feeling that we ain’t supposed to survive it.”

=

By the time the sun had reached its peak in the sky, Sam and Dean had put Deepwell to their backs. Dean glanced behind him at the dwindling, dark smear that was the town. It still didn’t feel right to leave Pamela behind, but she’d been insistent.

“You hunters have your job,” she’d said. “And I got mine. So get. I’ll be here when y’all are done savin’ us.”

Dean hoped she _would_ still be there. He didn’t think he could forgive himself if she wasn’t.

“Eyes on the road ahead,” Sam said gently. When Dean turned to look at him, he grinned. “You don’t need Baby bucking you off.”

Dean gave Sam an affronted look. “She’d never!” he said. “I could do a handstand on her back and she’d be as steady as ever.”

Sam scoffed. “I’d like to see that.”

Their easy, light bickering continued down the road for a good length of time. It ended when Dean went to prove his point, and ended up in the road, coated in dust, his brother laughing even as he helped Dean up. A companionable silence fell over them after that, and Dean found himself, for the time being, forgetting his gloomy thoughts from earlier.

Cain’s village came into view shortly before sunset, a jagged blot on the horizon. By dusk they were riding into the village’s ruins. They rode through the village in search of a suitable campsite, taking stock of the damage as they went. The fire had consumed everything, leaving behind the blackened skeletons of houses everywhere. Cain’s house was gone entirely, reduced to a pile of ash and rubble. The smell of smoke hung over the entire village.

The fire wasn’t without its victims, either. They came upon more than one pile of charred bones laying amongst the ashes. Once, horribly, they found a body, flesh blackened and split by heat, leaning halfway out of a window. It s arms were outstretched in a desperate bid for freedom.

“I hope Cain got out all right,” Sam murmured, staring at the body with haunted eyes. “And other villagers, too.”

“We’ve seen less than a dozen bodies, all told,” Dean said. “People got out, I’m sure of it.”

Once it was clear that none of the houses remained stable enough to risk spending a night in, they returned to the village’s main square. The well was untouched, save for a familiar mark, which appeared rust red in their lanterns’ light.

“Meg’s been here,” Sam said.

Dean grunted. “I ain’t surprised. I kinda gave her a head start, back in that other village.”

Sam looked pained. “That wasn’t your fault, Dean.”

“Sure it was. If I hadn’t been so reckless,” Dean stopped and waved the thought away. “We ain’t getting into this now. We gotta rest for the miles ahead.”

After a brief discussion, they decided to use the wards for the night. They needed to be well rested for when they caught up with Meg again. And while they fell asleep shortly after settling in their bedrolls, both brothers kept their blades well within reach.

=

A sudden bloom of light yanked Dean out of sleep, and he was sitting up, blade in hand, before he was even fully awake. Sam was also up, and he was looking out at what was going on beyond the wards.

They were in the center of a dome made of fire, the flames washing against the wards’ protection. The wards, weakened by the loss of one of their kin, flickered madly. Heat washed over the campsite, but the flames, for now, were held back. Dean wasn’t too keen to see how that would change once the wards failed.

Keeping an eye on the fire, Dean shuffled over to Sam. “What is it?” Dean asked over the roar of the flames. “A ghost?”

“Probably,” Sam said. He loaded his rifle with shells of rock salt as he spoke, his hands steady. “With what happened here, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Dean nodded and armed sweat off of his face. The heat was beginning to get oppressive. If it kept up, the wards wouldn’t need to break - they’d simply cook where they sat.

Just when Dean was about to ask Sam for ideas on what to do, the fire went out on its own. The darkness of the night was a such a sudden contrast that both brothers were left staring wide-eyed at their surroundings, blind until their eyes adjusted. Once their vision cleared, Dean bit out a curse, and Sam recoiled.

Ghosts stood all around them, making a loose ring outside of the one made by the wards. Most, judging by the way their forms flickered, were weak, but a handful of them stayed consistently solid. All of them carried burns on their skin and clothes.

And right in front in Sam and Dean, nearly unrecognizable with a burn across half his face, was Jack.

“At least _he_ didn’t escape in time,” Dean muttered darkly.

Jack tilted his head at the sound of Dean’s voice, his one whole eye wide and unblinking. He reached out a hand, and when it reached the wards’ barrier it spread out like he had met glass. Jack stared at his hand, and then at Dean. After a long moment he raised his free hand and beckoned.

“I doubt he’s any friendlier like this,” Sam said, voice pitched low in warning.

“Yeah, but he sure is easier to handle.” Drawing his sword, Dean gestured for Sam to follow him. “Might as well see what he wants.”

None of the ghosts moved as Dean and Sam approached the border of the wards’ protection. Jack watched them come, face deadpan.

“All right,” Dean said once they were only a few feet away from Jack. “You got us over here. This better be good.”

“I wanted to explain myself,” Jack said. His voice was raspy, and the smell of charred flesh was strong around him. “And to apologize.”

Dean blinked, taken aback. He’d expected Jack to spout off some more of that self-righteous nonsense like he’d done with Cain, not this calm, rational response. He glanced at Sam, who looked just as surprised. When Sam saw Dean watching him, he raised his eyebrows and tilted his head towards Jack. Dean knew what that look meant. Sam wanted to give Jack a chance and hear him out.

Sighing quietly, Dean turned back to Jack. “All right,” he said. “We’re listening.”

The ruined half of Jack’s face made his thankful smile hideous. He turned his head, first looking at the other ghosts, and then at the burned-out ruins of his village. “I never meant for this to happen,” he said. “When I came back after hunting down that witch, I was… tainted. Changed.”

“Changed how?” Sam asked.

“She welcomed me into her camp with open arms,” Jack said, as if Sam hadn’t spoken at all. “Gave me some of her witch’s brew. It shone, and tasted like metal and moonlight. It made my head feel like it was bigger’n the whole desert.”

Sam leaned towards Dean and murmured, “That kind of sounds like quicksilver.”

“That was when she mentioned fightin’ Cain, that I was chosen by the new guardian.” Jack shook his head, looking disgusted. “And by all that breathes, it made _sense_ , in my too-big head.

“So I came back to the village, lookin’ for what I thought was my due, and,” Jack gestured to the village around them. “I didn’t realize what I was doin’ was wrong until it was too late to fix anythin’.”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest. “I”m glad you’re guilty and all, but what are we supposed to do with your story?”

Jack scowled. “Y’all are huntin’ the witch, right? She mentioned that, when she rode through awhile back and fixed the well.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “She talked to you?”

“Yup.” Jack’s smile was thin. “Reckon she thought I was still crazy. She wanted me to attack you guys when you rode through.”

“But instead you’re helping us,” Dean said.

“She made me destroy my home,” Jack said, mouth a tight, thin line. “And she’s gonna do what she did to me to the whole desert. I’ll do what I can to stop her.”

“Wait,” Dean said, holding up one of his hands. “Back up. What is she doing to the desert?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Keep up, kiddo. The brew she gave me? She’s been puttin’ it in every well she’s fixed.”

Dean thought back to the night he watched Meg fixed the other village’s well, to the bowl of shining liquid she’d poured into it as part of her ritual. He’d thought it was nothing more harmful than some water that had been magicked to glow. What Jack said implied that it had been something much more sinister.

“‘Course it’s thinner, bein’ in all that well water,” Jack said. “But it’ll have the same result. Eventually.”

“So we’ll have a desert full of crazies, given enough time?” Dean asked, horrified.

“Why?” Sam asked, looking pale and shaken. “What does Meg and her new guardian gain from doing this?”

Jack shrugged. “It ain’t like she was spillin’ her guts for me. I’m only tellin’ y’all what I saw, and what I know.”

“Well,” Sam said, and cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. “What you’ve told us has definitely been, erm, enlightening.”

“I bet. So did I give y’all enough reason to take that witch’s head off?”

“Oh,” Dean said, “we already had a bunch of reasons for that. But you’ve definitely added to the fire.”

Jack’s smile was cruel and horrible. “Good. Then I have a request, in exchange for everything I’ve told you.”

“We’ll do it if we can,” Sam said.

“Put me and mine to rest,” Jack said. His shoulders slumped, and he looked paler than he had a moment before. “Tell you what, bein’ a ghost ain’t exactly blissful.”

Dean looked at the ghosts, who all looked back at him pleadingly, and then at Sam. His brother was still pale, but he also had a determined gleam to his eye. Dean nodded. It looked like they were losing sleep that night.

“We’ll put down the wards,” Dean said, turning back to Jack. “And then you can point us to the bones.”

=

With the ghosts leading the way, Sam and Dean were able to gather all the bones and place them in the main square in only a handful of hours. After that, it was only a matter of coating the pyre with salt and oil and setting it alight. One by one, the ghosts burst into a shower of sparks, which then faded into the night. Before he winked out, Jack turned to the brothers and thanked them.

“I know it don’t make up for what I did, but it’s the least I can do,” he said. “So do what I can’t, and go get her.”

“We will,” Dean said.

Jack smiled, and in that moment he was whole again, his body free of burns. And then the pyre shifted, and he winked out of existence, his sparks mixing with the ones already drifting into the air.

“I forgot to ask him something,” Sam murmured, after a moment of solemn silence.

Dean tilted his head towards Sam. “What?”

“Why Meg healed this well. No one lives here anymore, so what was the point?”

“Who knows?” Dean turned away from the burning bones and looked northwest, where the road led back out into the desert. “Remind me to ask when we catch her.”

Sam and Dean stayed in the village for the rest of the night, waiting for the fire to die down. By the time the pyre was reduced to embers, the eastern mountains were tipped with light, and brothers were packed and ready to move on.

The rest of the journey to Fallowfield was uneventful. Every waypoint and village Sam and Dean passed through had a well filled to the brim with water, and bore Meg’s symbol. At first, Sam wanted to warn the villages they rode through about the tainted water, but Dean overruled him. At best, people wouldn’t believe them. At worst, they’d end up being attacked, like Pamela had been. So they kept their heads down and kept moving, the truth about the wells hanging heavy in both of their minds.

They rode into Fallowfield five days after leaving Deepwell. The silence of predawn hung heavily in the gray air, the houses around them nothing more than shadows. When they reached Fallowfield’s well, Sam and Dean rode around it without a word, scanning its walls, hoping against hope.

Meg’s symbol was painted on western wall, where the streams that led into the fields began. It looked nearly black against the white of the well’s basin, and shone wetly in the faint light.

Sam cursed under his breath. “I thought we could catch her before she got this far,” he said.

“Me too,” Dean said with a sigh.

“And what about the crops?” Sam turned to look out at the farmland. “We know how Meg’s ‘brew’ affects people, but what about plants?”

“I don’t know. You said quicksilver is a metal. Can it really do anything to a plant?”

Sam sighed. “Like I’ve said before, Dean, there’s no way to know for sure that it _is_ quicksilver. Quicksilver isn’t clear colored, and also doesn’t mix well with water. It’s too heavy.”

“But it makes people crazy _like_ quicksilver,” Dean said, as he did every time they’d had this discussion over the last few days. “And don’t forget what Pamela said, and Eloise’s dreams.”

“I know,” Sam said, sounding tired. “That’s why I’m not sure about it anymore.”

Dean reached out and squeezed Sam’s shoulders. “We’ll figure it out Sammy. Or, well, you will, seeing as you’re the smart one out of the two of us.”

Sam’s resulting smile was small, but genuinely grateful. Dean squeezed his shoulder again, then dropped it in favor of Baby’s reins. He cleared his throat and looked away, feeling awkward. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s make sure the Moseley clan survived Meg’s visit.”

The trail to the Moseley house was clear, and the house itself looked unharmed. The only difference Dean could see from their last visit was that the refugees’ camp was gone. They’d probably returned to their home villages, once they’d heard the news of their wells being revived.

“So far so good,” Sam said softly. Dean only grunted in reply. He wanted to see inside before he got his hopes up.

They tied their horses to the front porch railing, and climbed the steps up to the door. All the windows were dark, curtains drawn tightly closed. Dean frowned a little. When they’d stayed there just a few weeks ago, a light was always left burning through the night. Missouri had explained that it was just in case a late-night caller came by with an emergency.

Sam knocked on the door, and the sound echoed through the house. When no one answered, he knocked again. “Hello?” he called.

On a whim, Dean tried the doorknob. It turned easily, and the door creaked open just a bit. After sharing a glance with Sam, Dean pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped inside. Everything inside was dark, the shapes of furniture barely visible in the shadows. Still, as far as Dean could tell, nothing was tipped over, or ransacked.

“Hello?” Sam called again. “Missouri? Eloise? It’s Sam and Dean.”

Silence answered him. This time, when the brothers shared a look, it was one of resignation. They’d search the house from top to bottom, but Dean knew they wouldn’t find anyone. The Moseley clan was gone.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gatekeepers. Stargazing. Weathering a storm. Praying.

They stayed within earshot of each other as they searched the Moseley house, just in case it wasn’t as empty as it appeared. Everything stood undisturbed, furniture in their right places, beds made neatly, belongings put away. There wasn’t even a hint of a fight anywhere.

“It’s like they went on a holiday or something,” Sam said, voice pitched low. They’d finished searching the upper floors, and were heading downstairs to do a sweep of the ground floor. The minute creaks of the steps seemed oddly loud in the stillness of the house.

Dean shrugged a shoulder, and then gave Sam a lopsided smirk. “Maybe they’ve got a summer home we don’t know about.”

The look Sam gave him was wholly unamused, and he stopped walking when they reached the ground floor. Dean just shrugged again and turned to walk down the hall that led further into the house.

“Gotta say, the lack of a struggle is weird,” Dean said. He poked his head into Missouri’s room. It was empty of its litter of charms and trinkets. “It’s like they had enough warning to pack.”

“How is that possible?” Sam walked past Dean to look into the next room, which was the library. After a moment he signaled that it was clear. “We’re the only ones who knew where Meg was going, right?”

“I think so.” Dean shook his head and joined Sam. “But all of this would make more sense if they got warning, somehow.”

Sam only hummed his puzzled agreement. Together, Sam and Dean went further down the hall, towards the kitchen. The large room, usually filled with the chatter and laughter of Moseley’s many family members, was almost ominous in its silence. Every surface was bare, and the cupboards stood open and empty. The kitchen had been picked clean of even the smallest scrap of food.

“All right,” Dean said. “Now I’m almost entirely sure that this wasn’t the work of some angry mob.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. He stepped further into the kitchen, head turning this way and that. He paused, and then moved towards the counter, like something had caught his eye.

Dean stepped up behind him. “What is it?”

Sam picked up what he’d been looking at - a scrap of paper, no bigger than his hand. “A note for us,” he said. “I think.”

“What’s it say?” Even as he asked, Dean craned his neck over Sam’s shoulder so that both of them could read at the same time.

_Boys,_

_I ain’t the best at letters, but with how things are, there ain’t much of a choice. We got word from the guardian that the witch was heading our way, and we figured clearing out would be wiser than trying to hold our ground. So don’t worry about us. We headed out into the desert, where we have emergency shelter that’ll last us for a few weeks. We’ll be safe._

_As for you two, I heard you were looking for a certain something to help out the guardian. What you need is called blessed water. It’s an old gift from the guardian, and has been protected by the same family for generations. I ain’t gonna name the family outright, just in case this gets in the wrong hands. I’ll just say that they’ve been known as the gatekeepers of the desert. That should be enough to point you in the right direction._

_Be safe, boys, and do good._

_\- Missouri_

Sam let out a quiet breath. “They’re safe,” he said.

“Thanks to Cas,” Dean said, and then frowned a little. “But how? Last time I saw him, he could barely stand up on his own.”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe he was just really determined to talk to them.”

Dean thought of how Pamela had been attacked after Meg’s visit to Deepwell. How Castiel had told Dean to apologize for him. Hurting one of his dowsers, even directly, must be painful for Castiel. If he could avoid it happening again, even if it cost him, he’d probably do it. “Yeah,” Dean said, voice rough. “Maybe.”

Sam didn’t hear Dean’s response, too engrossed in rereading Missouri’s note. “What do you think she means by ‘gatekeepers’?”

Dean hummed, thinking, and tilted his head eastward. “The mountain pass is the only way in and out of the desert. Think that was something to do with it?”

“Possibly.” After a moment to think, Sam reached for his beltpouch and brought out the map, which was tucked safely away in its tube. He unrolled it on the nearby countertop and studied it, tracing the main road with one long finger. Soon enough, he made a small, triumphant noise and tapped at a small square on the map.

“Like you said, there’s only one road into the desert.” Looking up at Dean excitedly, Sam asked, “And what was the first place we stopped at when we entered the desert?”

And just like that, Dean understood, too. He gave his brother a crooked grin. “The Roadhouse.”

=

Though they hadn’t seen any visible threats when they rode through Fallowfield, Sam and Dean decided to stay put until dusk. They wanted the protective darkness of the night, just in case Meg had left a spy or two in town. There was no way to know if Meg knew about the blessed water, but there was no reason to alert her to their movements, either.

The day passed quietly. Sam and Dean bedded down in an eastern-facing room so that they could easily watch the path connecting the Moseley house to Fallowfield proper. They slept the day away in shifts. At dusk, both of them were awake, and they packed and discussed what route to take to the Roadhouse.

“We could take the road,” Sam said.

“That takes us at least a week out of our way. And I ain’t keen on going through Salvation, with Meg on the prowl.” Dean tapped the square that marked Fallowfield’s position on the map, then ran a finger across the desert to the Roadhouse. “If we go off the road, we could get there in five, maybe four days.”

Sam’s brow furrowed as he looked from the map to his brother. “Is that a good idea? There aren’t any landmarks. We could get lost out there.”

“The pass is almost directly southeast of us from here,” Dean traced the path out again, “so it’s only a matter of using the stars.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Sam said, still frowning.

Dean smirked. “Don’t act like it’s such a chore, Sammy. I’ve caught you stargazing often enough.”

Sam’s mouth tightened as his frown shifted to a glower. “There’s a difference between _gazing_ and _navigating_ , Dean,” he said.

“And it ain’t like we have much of a choice. Meg’ll reach Salvation before we even see the Roadhouse, if we take the long way around.”

Sam still looked unsure, studying the map with thoughtful intensity, eyes scanning over the space between Fallowfield and the Roadhouse. He sighed. “You’ve got a point,” he said. “Let’s give it a try.”

Dean clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Great,” he said. “And I got faith in you, Sammy. You’ll get us there just fine.”

“Save the praise for when we actually get to the Roadhouse,” Sam said, sounding a little grim.

“You’re too much of a worrier.” Dean gave him a small, reassuring smile, then stood and shouldered his bags. “Now c’mon. Moonlight’s wasting.”

=

Fallowfield was quiet when they rode into it at dusk. The windows of some of the houses were bright with lantern light, but no one was out on the streets. As a farming town, most of Fallowfield’s people rose and slept with the sun. That suited Sam and Dean just fine, as they were able to ride along the main road without worry of being seen.

They stopped just on the eastern border of the town so that Sam could get his bearings. He stared upwards, lips moving as he muttered to himself. Dean stayed quiet, letting Sam work, and kept an eye on the town behind them, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

“There’s the Dragon’s Eye,” Sam murmured, pointing at a particularly bright star due exactly north. The cloudy spread of stars behind it did indeed have a vaguely serpentine shape. “At this time of night, its tail should be pointing…”

Turning his head, Sam pointed at the other end of the star-patch. “Just south of due east,” he finished. “We’ll follow that, for now, and then turn a little farther south in a day or so.”

Dean nodded, and gestured at the desert spread out before them. “Lead the way.”

So Sam led them off the road and into the desert, occasionally glancing at the stars as he went, remaining silent in his concentration. Dean followed him with question. He could name the more prominent constellations, and could even recite some of the stories behind their names, but navigating by them was beyond him. So as Sam looked skyward, Dean paid attention to the ground and their surroundings. Since they’d forgone the road, the risk of unseen pitfalls and obstacles was much higher.

Once they’d left the lights of Fallowfield behind them, the darkness of the desert all but swallowed them. The stars were a brilliant sprawl above them, with the jagged silhouette of the eastern mountains the only obstruction to their view. Save for the stars, their lanterns seemed to be the only points of light in the entire desert. It made Dean feel small, a lonely speck in the endless dark all around him.

They kept moving until the stars disappeared, the approaching dawn veiling them from sight. The desert was featureless all around them, without even a patch of greenery to interrupt the perfectly flat land. Dean realized that later, when the sun cleared the mountains, they would be without shade. Too late to turn back, Dean thought with a sigh, and dismounted to set up camp.

Even though there shouldn’t have been any people for miles, Sam and Dean decided to sleep in shifts. Meg might have been following the roads then, but both brothers remembered that her carriage had first appeared off the road, wandering the open desert. And so Dean sat up, blade resting across his lap, and watched the sun rise as Sam fell asleep.

At first, the coolness of the night clung to the desert, even after dawn. But an hour or so after the sun cleared the mountains, Dean felt that coolness dissipate like it had never existed in the first place. Heat settled over the desert like a blanket, comfortable at first, but slowly growing to become stifling. By the time the sun had reached its zenith and Dean was shaking Sam awake, his face was dripping sweat and he felt half-cooked. 

Once Sam was up, Dean flopped onto his bedroll, not even bothering with its covers. He pulled his hat low to shade his face, rolled onto his side, and let his exhaustion push him into sleep.

=

He was laying on his back in his dream, the desert all around him, and Castiel at his side. Castiel didn’t say anything, but he smiled when he saw Dean looking. Dean had so many questions to ask, but the exhaustion written across Castiel’s face and the tension in his shoulders kept Dean quiet. If Castiel didn’t want to talk, then Dean wouldn’t force him. Not yet.

Turning his head, Castiel looked skyward and, with one trembling hand, swept away the daylight. The stars were a brilliant spill of silver, and Dean felt like he could reach out and touch them.

Castiel spent the dream teaching Dean about the stars. He would indicate a constellation and tell the story behind it in a tired, raspy voice. Some of the stories, Dean found, were different from the ones he’d heard growing up. So after Castiel told his story, Dean told the one he knew, much to Castiel’s visible delight. Time passed quickly like that, stars wheeling overhead as they talked, and by the time Castiel shifted to press fingers against Dean’s temple, Dean felt at peace.

“Thanks for this,” he murmured.

“No.” While Castiel still looked exhausted, some of the tension had leached out of his frame, and the smile he gave to Dean was very much relaxed. “Thank _you_.”

=

Sam shook Dean awake at dusk. The sky was a dusty purple, with the stars just beginning to wink into existence. Dean stared at the stars for a moment, the calm of the dream still over him, before he took a deep breath and focused his gaze earthward. There was a camp to pack up, and miles to go before dawn.

The night passed much like the one before it, with Sam navigating and Dean standing guard behind him. When they stopped at dawn, the mountains were decidedly closer than they had been the day before. The road that led up to the pass wasn’t visible, but at least it was clear they were making progress.

“Halfway there?” Dean asked Sam.

Sam nodded tiredly. He was already sprawled out on his bedroll, and looked more than ready to sleep. “As long as nothing happens,” he muttered.

Dean scoffed quietly. “Keep saying that, Sammy, and we’ll end up cursed.”

Sam’s response was indistinct, and not even a breath later he was snoring. Dean smiled and shook his head. When Sam was ready to sleep, barely anything could keep him awake.

Dawn came quickly after Sam bedded down, and the heat soon after that. Dean whiled away the hours of his watch checking both his and Sam’s weapons. He cleaned every blade and firearm, and sharpened anything that needed it. With the way things were going for them in the desert, it didn’t hurt to be prepared for any situation.

By the time it was Sam’s turn to keep watch, Dean was eager to sleep. He dropped off as soon as he stretched out on his bedroll. He slept without dreaming.

The next night, Sam led them on a more southerly route, so they were riding nearly parallel to the mountains. Besides that, the time passed as it had the last two nights. Soon enough they were setting up camp, and Sam was volunteering to take first watch.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how hard you’ve been working,” he told Dean. “It won’t kill you to sleep first every now and then.”

Dean would usually protest and say that he was fine, but sleep sounded far too appealing for him to pass up. So he just shrugged and mumbled out a “fine” before laying down. He was drifting off as soon as he closed his eyes.

=

The sun loomed huge and blazing over the desert, but since it was Dean’s dream, he felt cool. Castiel appeared cool as well, but not in a good way. He was pale and clammy, and was shivering despite the sunlight beating down on the both of them.

“You went to the Moseley house,” Castiel said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” Dean said. He could feel his expression setting into something more grim. This dream, unlike the last, was strictly business. “we’re headed to the Roadhouse now, to get the blessed water.”

Castiel pressed a hand to his chest at Dean’s words. Some of the tension left his face, and he even managed a thin smile. “I got through to Missouri,” he said quietly. “Good.”

Dean blinked. “You didn’t know if you reached her?”

“No.” Castiel cocked his head, watching Dean with dark, sharp eyes. “It takes a certain, ah, resonance for me to easily walk into someone’s dreams. All dowsers are close to that resonance, so while Missouri’s dreams are accessible to me, they aren’t exactly _easy_ to reach.”

It never seemed to strain Castiel to visit Dean’s dreams. Was it possible that they resonated better than the guardian’s own dowsers? Dean itched to ask, but he was afraid of the answer, and what it would imply. So instead he cleared his throat and said, “Your warning probably saved the Moseley clan.”

Castiel looked weary, but pleased. “That was the point,” he said. “I wouldn’t spend so much energy for any other result.”

“About that.” Dean gave Castiel an appraising look. “How are you here? You can’t have much strength to spare right now on little ol’ me.”

“My desert is in danger, and you’re doing what you can to aid me. I always have the strength to spare when it comes to that.”

Dean held his hands up in a gesture of peace. “All right, I can understand that. Your desert’s important. But still, you must be visiting for a reason.”

Castiel ruefully glanced up at the blistering sun. In the distance, so faint that it seemed almost unreal, came the sound of thunder.

“Time is running short,” Castiel said. “Deepwell and Fallowfield have fallen to Meg’s power. All that is left is Salvation.”

“What’ll happen, if we can’t stop her?” Dean asked. “What if she reaches Salvation ahead of us?”

“That isn’t allowed to happen,” Castiel said, voice sharp and harsh. It was as close to anger as Dean had ever seen him get. “The first well must not be taken. It _won’t_.”

“All right,” Dean said, keeping his voice calm. He wanted to reach out and soothe the tension in Castiel’s frame, but he didn’t quite dare. “All right. We’ll make sure Meg doesn’t touch Salvation.”

“Good.” Castiel’s shoulders relaxed again. “Thank you.”

“Of course, Cas.”

Thunder growled across the desert again, loud enough to echo off the nearby mountains. Clouds began to drift across the sky, blocking some of the sun’s brutal heat. The waning light only emphasized Castiel’s pallor. Worry flared in Dean’s chest, and he had to fight the urge to ask if Castiel was truly well enough to be here. That sort of fussing wouldn’t be useful in this situation, if at all.

In a weak attempt to distract himself, Dean said, “We’ll reach the Roadhouse soon. In a couple days, if my reckoning is right. Will we beat Meg to Salvation?”

Castiel sighed. “Perhaps,” he said. “It depends on her path to the other wells. What that would be, though, I can’t say.”

“Right,” Dean said, almost absently. He chewed on his lip as he thought. It would take another three days from the Roadhouse to reach Salvation. What were the odds Meg would wait a week before striking?

“I could try to stall her,” Castiel said, as if he were following Dean’s thoughts. “It may give you the time needed to catch up.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “What can you do? You’re locked up.”

“I can do enough.” Castiel’s smile was cold. “I can spark her temper, for a while. It’s volatile enough to distract her.”

A chill swept through Dean, and it had nothing to do with the sharp wind that was beginning to pick up. The sun and the rest of the sky was all but covered with clouds. “She has a bad temper?” he asked. “Has she turned it on you?”

“Yes,” Castiel said simply. “And she will turn it on me again, I’m sure, when given the excuse.”

Dean scowled, worry and anger a spark in his chest. “She’ll kill you.”

“Oh, no. Not yet. She wouldn’t dare kill me until—“

Lightning cracked, close and bright, and the thunder this time didn’t growl. It roared. It drowned out Castiel with little effort. Looking up, Dean saw that the sky had gone slate gray. More lightning licked across the clouds as he watched.

“I’ve kept you for too long,” Castiel murmured, also looking skyward. “You need to go. Now.”

He went to make the gesture that would send Dean out of the dream, but before he could finish, lightning lanced down again. It struck the ground between them, so close that Dean was momentarily blinded, his head full with the smell of molten copper. Castiel cried out, and Dean instinctively reached out for him. Not a moment after his fingers wrapped around Castiel’s wrist, Castiel was yanked backward. Dean followed suit, not letting go of Castiel. He fell forwards, into, _through_ Castiel, and he had a moment to think _Oh, again, it’s happening again_ before everything went blurry.

=

It took a second for dean to realized that Castiel’s screams weren’t just in his head, but in the air as well. The delay wasn’t his fault, though. He could barely think past the searing tangle of pain in his stomach.

After a long, agonizing eternity, the pain withdrew. Dean gasped and slumped forward with relief. After a moment to recover, Dean blinked his watery eyes, lifted his head, and looked around. He realized with a jolt that he was back in the ring of fire that made up Castiel’s prison. Which meant he must be back in Castiel’s body.

And standing on the other side of the flames, silvery blade in hand, was Meg.

_I’m sorry,_ Castiel gasped in Dean’s thoughts. _I didn’t mean to pull you back with me. I’m so sorry._

“Well, look who finally decided to join me,” Meg said, voice low and dangerously sweet. “Did you have nice dreams?”

A hiss slid through Dean’s mind, but nothing actually came out of Castiel’s throat. His face, though, was twisted into a scowl. His hatred for the witch was nearly palpable.

“I hate to interrupt your much-needed rest,” Meg said. She sighed, poorly feigning regret. “But you know how it is. Another day, another well to fix.”

She flicked the blade in their direction as she spoke. Fire glinted off its edge. A drop of liquid fell off the blade and into the flames, hissing and releasing the smell of blood into the air. And that’s when Dean realized, with growing horror, that the knife wasn’t silver. It was coated in a silver-colored liquid.

_That was in your stomach,_ Dean thought at Castiel, _wasn’t it?_

_Yes,_ Castiel said. His fear as he eyed the knife tasted sharp and bitter.

_Cas, what color is your—_

Dean’s question was drowned out by Castiel’s surge of panic. Meg had just stepped over the flames and was approaching them. She still had the knife in one hand, and was now carrying a familiar-looking earthenware bowl in the other. Her smile was one part mocking, and three parts cruel.

_Brace yourself,_ Castiel said. His voice remained steady, even while the rest of his presence was practically screaming in fear. _I’ll try to take the pain, but this will still be unpleasant._

Dean wanted to struggle, and even made to lunge at Meg, but his efforts were fruitless. With just a flick of her fingers, Meg forced Castiel’s body into a kneeling position. She crouched so that she was eye level with him, still smiling.

“Such fight,” she murmured. “And here I thought I broke you a few towns back.”

This time Castiel did verbalize his snarl, lip curling back the slightest bit. Meg merely laughed.

“Hiss all you want, pet, but you don’t have any fangs as long as you’re in your cage.” Meg thumbed the edge of the knife and brought it to bear at Castiel’s stomach. “Now be a good boy and hold still.”

Castiel grunted when Meg plunged the knife hilt-deep into his stomach, a punched-out sound that was more breath than anything. He didn’t start screaming in earnest until she pulled the blade sideways, ripping her way through flesh and muscle. Dean barely felt the pain - true to his word, Castiel was shouldering the brunt of it - but hearing Castiel suffer was enough to enrage him. Keeping Castiel imprisoned was wrong, but using him like this, _torturing_ him, was monstrous.

Dean swore to himself, as Meg finished her cut and pulled out the knife, that Meg wouldn’t leave the desert alive.

Meg hummed, pressing the bowl below the gaping wound in Castiel’s belly and collecting the blood pouring out of it. It was the same silver color as the liquid from earlier, and Dean would bet everything he owned that this was what he saw Meg use for her ritual, all those days ago. A weak pulse of agreement from Castiel’s mind confirmed his fears. Dean felt sick.

“Good,” Meg said, swirling the bowl so that the blood caught the light in weak, silvery flashes. She then pressed a hand against the wound she’d made. The sensation of bleeding faded, and Dean felt the flesh knit back together. Meg was healing her gruesome handiwork. “Such a good boy, aren’t you?”

Castiel barely responded, his consciousness still reeling from the torture. Dean, however, had enough awareness to level a glare at Meg through Castiel’s eyes. It gave him a thrill of satisfaction to see the smirk drop off of her face to be replaced with something akin to surprise.

“How,” she started, and then stopped. Her eyes narrowed. “You aren’t alone.”

Castiel, who was just beginning to recover, let out a spark of alarm. Moving as quick as a striking snake, Meg reached out and grabbed Castiel’s face with one hand. Her fingers dug into his cheeks as she pulled him close.

“Who’s in there?” Meg asked. She cocked her head, dark eyes glinting in the firelight. “A water-sniffer from Fallowfield, maybe?”

Both Castiel and Dean remained silent. Meg sighed, sounding put-upon. “I knew I should’ve punished you when you warned the Moseleys,” she said. “I’m just too soft with you.”

She dug her fingers deeper into Castiel’s face, her nails sharp, burning points against his cheeks. “Who’s in there, Castiel? If you tell me, I promise I’ll be gentle.”

Castiel continued to stay quiet, but Dean didn’t. Looking straight into Meg’s eyes, he peeled Castiel’s lips back in a snarl and said, “Fuck you.”

Meg dropped Castiel’s face in favor of backhanding him. Castiel’s head snapped back from the force of the blow, and Dean tasted blood where the inside of Castiel’s cheek tore against his teeth. Pain bloomed, hot and stinging, making one of Castiel’s eyes water.

“And I was trying to be nice,” Meg said. Her expression was contrite, but her eyes shone in amusement. “Now I don’t have a choice, do I?”

Reaching out, Meg took Castiel’s face in her hands again. Her grip this time was suspiciously gentle. When she forced Castiel to look up at her again, Dean saw that her eyes glowed with power.

“Don’t worry, pet,” Meg said. “I’ll flush that parasite right out of your head.”

Castiel’s fear and anger at her words was almost overwhelming. _Dean—!_

Magic, as strong and inexorable as a large wave, crashed through Castiel’s body. His eyes rolled back into his head at the onslaught. The power wrapped around Dean’s consciousness and pulled. He tried to hold on, to anchor himself, but it was impossible. His grip slipped, and he felt himself get washed away into the voice. Castiel called after him, distressed, but soon his voice was lost to the encroaching darkness.

=

Dean awoke with a gasp, body tense and ready for a fight. Sam immediately backed off from looking over him, allowing Dean to sit up and look around. The desert was as vast and flat as ever, with dusk just beginning to creep in. Dean took one look at the sun’s position and let out a curse.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” he asked Sam. “I might’ve been tired, but not _that_ tired.”

“I tried,” Sam said, glowering. He rubbed at his eyes. “You wouldn’t wake up. And then you started thrashing a little while ago, and I wasn’t risking getting hit in the face.”

“Oh.” Dean’s expression cleared, and he ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, Cas had a pretty good hold on me.”

“I figured,” Sam said. He stood and dusted off his hands. “What did he want to talk about?”

“Not much,” Dean said, rubbing at his temples. A headache was beginning to brew there. “He was checking on our progress, I think.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

“Things got a little complicated for a while.” Dean pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. “Now unless you want us to lose time, we should head out.”

Sam didn’t argue, and they were packed and riding out again in a matter of minutes. The night swallowed the desert whole, leaving the air cool and still. The stars above their head were like a scatter of diamonds.

“Hey,” Dean said, after they’d ridden for a while in silence. “You know a lot about magic, right?”

Sam hummed. “I think so. I mean, it’s not like I went to school for it or anything.”

Dean could only see the back of Sam’s head from where he was, but he could hear his smirk well enough. “Shut up,” Dean said. “I just had a question.”

“Oh yeah? What?”

Dean glanced up at the sky, gaze landing on the Dragon with its brilliant, unmoving eye. It had another name in the desert, he suddenly remembered. The Water Guardian. “Is there such a thing as blood magic?”

Sam reined his gelding to a stop so quickly that Baby nearly ran into him. “Why do you ask?” Sam asked, turning his head to eye Dean.

“Something that Cas said,” Dean lied. He didn’t want to mention Meg draining Castiel of silver-colored blood unless he absolutely had to. Just thinking about it made his stomach churn. “Made me curious.”

Sam nodded, and then tilted his head as he thought. “There isn’t any actual school for it,” he said. “Everything I know is based off rumors I heard in university. Technically, blood magic doesn’t exist.”

Dean blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, in theory, people who can use water magic can manipulate blood and use it in spells, but it’s never happened.”

“Why not?”

Sam shrugged. “Ethics? Or it could just literally be impossible. It’s not like we were ever encouraged to try it out, over at the university.”

“Right.” Dean fiddled with Baby’s reins, uneasy. He didn’t have enough knowledge about magic to feel comfortable talking about it, and this topic in particular was sounding more and more taboo. “Well, I was just wondering, so. Yeah.”

Sam nodded slowly, and then looked forward again. He urged his horse onward, and Dean did the same. they rode for a couple of minutes in silence, and then Sam said, “One thing I can say for sure, though.”

Dean swallowed past his suddenly-dry throat. “Yeah?”

Sam looked back at Dean with dark, frightened eyes. “If someone’s using blood magic, the wisest choice would be to run away from them. And run away fast.”

=

The mountains loomed beside Sam and Dean by the time dawn approached the next day. They were as huge and close as Dean remembered them being when they’d first been at the Roadhouse. One detail, however, didn’t match with his memories.

“Where’s the road to the pass?” Dean asked.

Sam paused mid-yawn to give Dean a confused look. “What?”

“The pass.” Even though the sun still sat behind the mountains, there was still enough light to make out some features. As far as Dean could tell, there was no visible road cutting up the side of the mountains. “I don’t see it.”

“That’s not right,” Sam muttered. He blearily squinted at the mountains. “We should be able to see it by now.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. It ain’t there.”

Sam gave Dean a lost, tired look. Shaking his head, Dean took pity on his younger brother. “We’ll figure it out in a few hours. Right now, you need to catch some shuteye.”

Sam tried to protest, but Dean wasn’t having it. He set up camp and practically dragged Sam out of his saddle and onto his bedroll. Sam grumbled the whole way, insisting he was fine, and was out like a light as soon as he laid down. Satisfied, Dean sat down beside his brother and turned his attention to the desert.

The morning passed slowly. Dean let Sam sleep as long as he wanted - it was only fair, after Dean had slept the entirety of last night away. The sun had just passed its zenith when Sam woke up. He tried to get Dean to sleep as well, but Dean refused.

“We need to figure out where we are,” Dean said. “And that’ll be harder at night than it would be in the day.”

There was no way Sam could argue against that. So they packed up and rode out, going directly eastward, towards the mountains. It was less than an hour before they came across the road. Here Dean found another difference to what he remembered. Instead of a broad road carved deep into the earth from frequent use, there was only a pair of wheel-ruts. They stretched out of sight, both to the north and the south.

“What,” Dean said, staring at the makeshift path.

“Curse it,” Sam muttered. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. “I was afraid of this happening. We’re too far south.”

“You’re joking.” Sam’s expression remained stony, and Dean let out a soft curse of his own. “I didn’t realize there was a road south of the Roadhouse.”

“It’s on the map, but it’s marked as a path, not a road.” Squinting northward, Sam said, “My guess is that it was used less than the road to Salvation, back in the trading days.”

Dean sighed heavily through his nose. This was a setback they really didn’t need, what with Meg poised to reach Salvation any day now. He was frustrated, but he couldn’t be angry. Not when Sam was staring down at the path with a hangdog expression.

“All right,” Dean said, working to keep his voice steady. “We’ll just follow the path. Easy enough.”

Sam looked up sharply. “That’s it?”

“Well, sure.” Dean gave Sam a quick smile and then kicked Baby into motion. “You got us this far, Sam. We could still be lost out there without your stargazing.”

Sam didn’t reply, but Dean saw him duck his head out of the corner of his eye, and heard his horse fall into step behind Baby. Smiling more widely, Dean flicked his reins and led them northward at a trot.

=

Night fell a handful of hours after they set out, and they were still following the path. It now resembled more of a road, the ruts merged into a shallow dip in the ground, though it was narrow and uneven. They camped on the side of the path at moonrise, and got some much needed rest. Both brothers were up with the sun, and were once more riding north by the time sunlight was pouring over the mountaintops.

As the day passed, the path smoothed out and widened, turning into a proper road. Around midday, Dean caught sight of a familiar ridge in the mountains. He grinned. It was the mountain pass.

“We made it,” he called over his shoulder. His smile slipped, and he reined to a stop when he noticed Sam had stopped a few yards back. Sam was staring ahead of them, face pale.

“What is it?” Dean followed Sam’s gaze and turned forward. What he saw made the bottom fall out of his stomach.

There was a smudge of blue-black smoke on the shimmering horizon, vivid against the pale sky. It was far too large to be from a campfire.

“No,” Dean whispered, eyes wide and face numb. He dug his heels into Baby’s sides, and she immediately burst into a gallop. Sam did the same with his horse just a beat later. As they thundered up the road, Dean found himself hoping - _praying_ \- that everything was all right.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dogfight. A tunnel. A miracle. A chance.

They met the first Cursed Hound on the road.

It was sitting in the middle of the road, waiting, and when Dean was only a few yards away it rose to its feet and lunged. Baby reared, whinnying, and Dean clung to his saddle with a shout of surprise. She kicked out her front legs as the Hound approached, and stomped down with all of her weight when it was in range. The Hound dodged with a low snarl, tattered ears pressed tight against its skull, and then leaped. Baby wheeled around and kicked her hind legs, catching the Hound in the chest. It flew with a howl and the crunch of breaking bones, and slid to a dusty stop in front of Sam’s horse.

Sam’s horse danced in place, eyes rolling in fear, but Sam was less cowed. Sliding out of the saddle, Sam drew his greatsword and cut downward with a two handed slash. He caught the Cursed Hound across the back, and while it howled in pain, it didn’t die. Sam’s mouth tightened and he stabbed the Hound in the stomach. It still lived, growling low and guttural in its throat, teeth bared at Sam.

“Leave it,” Dean said when Sam got ready to strike another blow. “We need to keep going.”

Sam frowned, sword at the ready. Dean saw that instead of the Hound’s blood being a brilliant scarlet, it was dark and clotted, like it was a week old. “But—“

“We didn’t have time.” Dean glanced at the smoke, which was darker and closer than ever. “Besides, it’s too hurt. It’ll die on its own time.”

Looking north as well, Sam reluctantly nodded. He cleaned his sword with quick, perfunctory movements and sheathed it, then remounted his horse. He was barely back in the saddle when Dean was galloping forward again.

The Roadhouse, when they reached it, was no longer ablaze. It was a smoldering ruin. The stable was nothing but ash, and only a few walls of the main building remained standing. No one was in sight. There weren’t even any signs of corpses.

Two Cursed Hounds were wandering amongst the rubble, noses to the ground. The closer one looked up at Sam and Dean’s approach and growled, alerting its partner. Both of them slunk forward, bellies low to the ground, snapping the air as they came. Sam and Dean reined to a sharp stop and dismounted, drawing their blades and meeting the Hounds head on.

Dean gripped the hilt of his broadsword tightly, trying to hide the way his hands shook. The memory of a Hound’s claws tearing through his flesh was far too fresh for him to ignore. Still, he couldn’t let his fear overcome his reason, not in the middle of a fight. So Dean took a deep breath and swallowed his fear before stepping forward and swinging his blade at the charging Hound.

The attack nicked the Cursed Hound on the snout, carving out a shallow cut that bled sluggish black blood. It was enough to stop the Hound’s charge, the pure iron in the blade making it back off with a pained snarl. It circled Dean, body low, cut smoking slightly, lips peeled back from its sharp teeth. Dean held his sword up, blade in front of his body, and bared his teeth right back.

The Hound snapped the air, but didn’t attack. At his back, Dean heard the sound of snarls and shuffling, scrambling steps. Sam’s Hound, it seemed, was less hesitant about fighting. Dean wanted to turn and check on his brother, but he didn’t quite dare. Not with the beast pacing right in front of him.

“C’mon,” he muttered at the Hound, twirling his blade a little. “I ain’t here to dance, you mangy mutt.”

The Hound abruptly crouched, muscles bunching under its ruined hide. Dean had only a second to bring his sword up again before the Hound leaped at him. They both went down, the air punched from Dean’s lungs as he hit the ground. His fear was back, and it was edging into panic. The Hound had him pinned at the shoulders, claws digging into cloth and skin. It stank of carrion. It was only a matter of time until the Hound tore into him in earnest. This was just like last time, just like when he nearly died.

Except, Dean realized in a flood of relief, he was armed this time around.

He still held his broadsword in one hand, hilt dug into his sternum, flat of the blade across his chest. With a grunt of effort, he reached up to grip it with two hands and lifted the blade just when the Hound lowered its head to bite at Dean’s face. The flat of Dean’s sword caught the Hound’s throat, stopping its gnashing teeth a scant inch away from Dean’s nose. Its flesh smoked where the sword made contact, but the Hound didn’t let up. Instead it pressed forward, growling lowly. Dean’s arms were beginning to shake with the effort of holding the Hound at bay. He needed to do something soon, or else he was in big trouble.

Gritting his teeth and squinting his eyes into slits, Dean tried to rotate his sword. His palms slipped, too slick with sweat. He gasped, and the Hound pressed down harder. Letting out a yell, Dean tightened his grip on his sword and _twisted_. He felt the blade shift, then turn, then dig into the Hound’s throat. Partially clotted blood poured onto Dean’s face, and the Hound gave a gargled cry. It reeled back, lifting off Dean, allowing him to sit up and breathe again. Tearing in huge, ragged breaths, Dean scrambled to his feet and looked over at the Hound.

It was whining, or trying to. The sound was nothing more than a bubbling squeak. The Hound cowered next to the rubble that used to be the Roadhouse, blood oozing steadily from its thick throat. Its whining morphed into a wet growl when it saw Dean looking, and it tried to step forward. It wobbled and sank to the ground, instead, still growling. Wiping off his hands on his jeans, Dean renewed his grip on his sword and stepped forward, face grim. The Hound watched him come, lips peeling back in a snarl, but didn’t move. Its teeth shone blackly with its blood.

Taking his blade in a two-handed grip, Dean swung with all his might. He cut roughly through the Hound’s neck, separating head from body. The Hound thrashed once, limbs twisting, and then went limp. Dean sighed in quiet relief. He turned away from the dead Cursed Hound, flicking his blade. Blood left it in a fine spray. The fight was far from over.

Sam had avoided getting pinned, though he had a shallow cut on his side, and down his leg. His Hound was also the worse for wear, favoring one of its front legs and covered in smoking slashes. Neither opponent seemed to have the upper hand, though Dean was looking to change that.

The crunch of dirt under Dean’s boots alerted the Hound to his presence, and it whirled around with a snarl. Sam took advantage of its distraction and lunged, greatsword at the ready. The Hound howled as Sam’s blade buried itself into its hindquarter and went down, unable to support itself on only two legs.

“Go for the head,” Dean yelled at Sam.

Sam reacted immediately, bringing his sword up over his head and chopping down. His greatsword did clean work of the Hound’s neck, and it collapsed with barely a twitch. Sam straightened up once the Hound was still, sword held loosely in one large hand, and blew hair out of his face.

“Well,” Dean said, pulling out a bandana from his pocket and mopping the blood from his face. “That could’ve been worse, right?”

The look Sam gave him was incredulous. Dean shook his head and snorted. 

“Right.” Keeping his sword out, Dean turned to the Roadhouse. “Let’s go see what the damage is.”

The entire dining and bar area was gone, burned down to nothing but ashes and scraps of charred wood. Half of the bar still stood, but it looked ready to fall over at the slightest push. It was a sight that made Dean’s chest tighten. Even though they’d only briefly met Ellen, Jo, and Ash, they had been more than helpful and kind to Sam and Dean. They didn’t deserve this happening to them.

Behind him, Sam sighed. “If only I had kept us on course, he said softly. His face was tight with guilt when Dean turned to look at him.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Dean said. “It ain’t—“

Movement behind Sam caught his eye. There, crouched and tense, was the Cursed Hound from the road. It was still bleeding from its back, and its chest had a caved-in look to it, but it was still somehow upright.

“Sam—“

It was too late. By the time Sam was turning around, the Hound had darted forward. It came in low and fast, grabbing Sam’s ankle in its jaws and yanking him to the ground. Sam yelled breathlessly as he fell and was dragged across the dirt in short, painful-looking yanks. Blood bloomed around where the Hound’s teeth were sunk into Sam’s ankle, and it growled low in its throat as it dragged him backwards. 

Dean yelled Sam’s name, heart in his throat, and brought his sword up to attack the Hound. Before he could land a blow, a noise like a thunderclap tore through the air. Sparks, then flames, erupted along the Hound’s back, spreading rapidly. The Cursed Hound howled and dropped Sam’s leg, backing off as the fire consumed it completely. It ran in desperate circles, snapping at its back, as if it could stop the flames with its teeth alone, but it was no use. In moments the Hound was nothing more than a flailing bonfire, which quickly died away to nothing but a pile of ash and bones.

Dean lowered his sword, dumbfounded. Sam pushed himself up to sitting, clutching his ankle and hissing under his breath in pain.

“Was that you?” Dean asked, stepping forward and pulling Sam to his feet.

Sam shook his head and leaned against his brother, keeping his weight off of his wounded leg. “I used up all the fire magic I absorbed on those bandits.”

“Then who—?”

Someone cleared their throat. Turning around, they found Ash leaning against the remains of the bar. He was covered in soot, but otherwise looked fine. He gave the brothers a casual salute and then nodded at the burned remains of the Cursed Hound.

“Ain’t bad work for someone who knows more ‘bout magic theory than actual practice.” Ash smirked, but it was wobbly. It was then that Dean noticed how Ash was more propping himself on the bar than casually leaning against it. “Tuckered me out somethin’ awful, though.”

“Well, I appreciate the help,” Sam said.

“And we’re glad you ain’t dead,” Dean told Ash, and sheathed his sword. “Where’s Ellen and Jo?”

Ash shrugged. “Jo vanished when the Roadhouse started burnin’. Ellen just left to go lookin’ for her.”

As if summoned by Ash’s words, a panicked voice floated through the smokey air. It was barely a notch below a scream. “Ash! Ash, c’mere! Quick!”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Dean muttered. He exchanged looks with Sam and Ash, and then all three of them hurried in the direction of the voice.

=

The back of the Roadhouse hadn’t fared any better than the front, with most of the rooms burned down to nothing but a few standing walls. Dean couldn’t tell where anything used to be, but Ash unerringly led them to the very end of the ruins, where a room was still intact, save for its roof. The room was bare of any furnishing, and in the center of the floor was a trap door. It was flipped open, revealing a ladder that led into darkness. If Dean strained his hearing, he thought he heard the soft murmur of voices down below.

“Ellen?” Ash called down into the trap door’s opening. “Ma’am?”

The murmuring stopped, followed by a scuffling sound. The ladder shook as someone climbed up. Soon enough, Ellen emerged from the darkness. Her eyes were wide and her skin pale under the soot smeared across her cheeks.

“Thank the guardian,” Ellen said to Ash. “I need your—“ 

Her eyes caught on Sam and Dean, and some of the tension in her face disappeared. “You’re here,” she said. “I was thinking some mutt managed to take you down on the road.”

“It’ll take more than a few dogs to stop us, ma’am,” Dean said, offering Ellen a thin smile. “What’s going on?”

Ellen’s eyes shuttered at Dean’s question. “Come see,” she said. Her gaze flicked to Sam’s bleeding ankle and added, “Bring him, too.”

Ellen climbed back down the ladder, followed by Ash. Dean went next, so that he could catch Sam if his leg gave out during the climb. They made it down fine, though Sam was quick to lean on Dean again once they were on the ground.

They were at the mouth of a narrow tunnel. A candle flickered nearby, stuck into the soft dirt of the ground, illuminating the rough walls for a short distance before the shadows took over again. Leaning against the wall next to the candle was Jo. Her head was tilted back, her eyes were closed, and it looked like she was making an effort to control her breathing. Ellen knelt over her daughter, concern carving deep lines into her face. She smoothed some hair out of Jo’s hair, and Jo’s eyes fluttered open at the gesture.

“Hey, Ma,” Jo whispered.

“Hey,” Ellen said back, voice soft. She looked over at Sam, Dean, and Ash, who were still clustered near the ladder. “Look who I found to help us.”

Jo weakly turned her head, and the corner of her mouth quirked up into a small smile. “Hey,” she said again.

“Hey yourself,” Dean said. He led Sam over to Jo, and then let him go in favor of kneeling next to Ellen. “How you doing?”

“Been better,” Jo said. Dean noticed that she had a hand pressed against her side. Blood oozed between her fingers, shining black in the candlelight.

“Those dogs are a lot faster than they look,” Jo said, when she saw where Dean was looking.

“Yeah,” Dean said quietly, mouth pulled into a small, tense frown. Turning to Ellen, he said, “D’you got a med kit? If not, I can go—“

Ellen shook her head sharply. “She don’t need that,” she said. “We just need to get her down the tunnel.”

“But—“

“Don’t argue with my ma,” Jo said weakly. “‘Specially when she’s right.”

Dean was still frowning, but he managed a nod. He turned to Ash. “Can you carry her?”

Ash gestured at his slim frame and then spread his thin arms wide. “Does it look like I’m built for liftin’?”

“Fine. Then you’re in charge of walking Sam.” Dean pointed at Ash. “And don’t drop him.”

“Same goes to you, man.”

Dean slid his arms under Jo’s shoulders and the backs of her knees and rose to his feet, lifting Jo in one smooth motion. Jo cried out in pain, the sound partially muffled behind her clenched teeth, and then went quiet. Her breath was short and ragged. Ellen watched her for a moment, expression caught between distress and determination, and then grabbed the candle and stood as well.

“C’mon,” she said, and turned to face the darkness of the tunnel. “It’s a bit of a walk, and we ain’t got time to spare.”

=

The tunnel twisted and turned, almost serpentine in its shape, and the ground stayed level as they walked. The walls of the tunnel were smooth, and Dean guessed that someone had dug out this tunnel some time in the past.

As if to confirm his suspicions, carvings began to appear on the tunnel’s walls. Most were abstract, wavelike patterns, but Dean also saw the silhouettes of animals and people. On the roof of the cave, overseeing everything else, was the shape of a great, crested serpent. That design repeated itself over and over again, and it almost looked like the serpents were eating each others’ tails. Dean couldn’t help but keep his eyes on the undulating pattern above them, fascinated for a reason he couldn’t explain.

He was so distracted that he didn’t immediately notice when Ellen stopped, and almost ran into her. “We’re here,” Ellen murmured, and lifted her candle above her head.

Curious, Dean craned his neck so that he could look over Ellen’s shoulder. They were standing at the mouth of a cavern that appeared to be no more than a dozen paces across. Its walls were a riot of carvings, and on the ceiling, curled up on itself, was another crested serpent. Planted in the center of the chamber itself, a sharp contrast to its intricately decorated surroundings, was a simple hand pump.

“That’s it?” Dean asked, after a moment of stillness.

Ellen hushed him. “Show some respect, boy,” she said.

“How is this supposed to help Jo and Sam? There’s no medicine—“

“I said,” Ellen said, overriding Dean without raising her voice. When she looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes were sharp with a warning. “Show some respect.”

Dean went quiet under her gaze, and directed his attention to Jo. Her eyes were glazed over in pain, and her breathing had gone shallow. She didn’t seem to have heard the exchange between him and Ellen.

“Whatever we’re here to do,” Dean said, voice low, “I’d do it fast. She’s fading.”

With a small gesture, Ellen directed Dean to the pump. He settled Jo down in the dirt next to it, and Jo groaned weakly with the movement. Ellen touched Jo’s shoulder, and her expression briefly went soft. Then she blinked, and when she turned to Dean, she was all business again.

“You got a cloth?” she asked. “Something clean.”

“What I had got covered in Hound blood,” Dean said, tugging at where the bandana in question peeked out of his pocket. “I doubt you want that.”

“I’ve got something,” Sam said. Ash had led him to one wall of the cavern, and he now sat with his injured leg stretched out in front of him. “Here, hold on, I’ll find it.”

Sam dug through his pockets for a moment before procuring a clean bandana. He gave it to Ash, who in turn passed it to Ellen, who murmured her thanks. With cloth in hand, Ellen turned to face the hand pump.

“Brace yourselves, boys,” Ash said. His excitement bled into his words despite the fact that he’d pitched his voice low. “You’re ‘bout to witness a miracle.”

Holding the bandana under the spout, Ellen grasped the pump’s handle and pushed. Water immediately spilled out of it in a clear and steady stream. It seemed to gather the candlelight, returning it in silvery-gold flashes that were as bright as sunlight. The scent of the water filled the chamber, and with a jolt Dean realized he recognized it. It smelled like sun-warmed grass, like herbs and rain. It smelled like the plains. It smelled like home.

When the bandana was thoroughly soaked, Ellen stopped pumping water and turned to Jo. She peeled back Jo’s shirt from the wound on her stomach and pressed the dripping cloth to it. Jo’s body jerked, and she let out a small whimper. Ellen hushed her gently, and after a moment Jo settled again. A handful of breaths later, Ellen pulled away the bandana. Jo’s wound was gone.

Dean stared at the now-smooth skin on Jo’s stomach, eyes wide. He tried to speak, but all that came out of his mouth was a small, choked noise.

“What?” Sam asked. He couldn’t see what had happened to Jo from where he sat. “What happened? Dean?”

But Dean couldn’t respond, he was still in shock. Ellen turned to him, and her smile held the barest hint of a smirk to it. “Better than your medicine, huh?”

Dean swallowed, and managed a shaky nod. “Yes’m.”

“One day you’ll learn that I’m almost always right.” She pressed the bandana into Dean’s hand, and he noted absently that it was now dry. Ellen pointed at the pump. “Now, tend to your brother.”

Slowly, still a little stunned over what had happened, Dean knelt, held the bandana out under the spout, and pumped. The water was warm, and the smell of the plains was even stronger here. It only took a moment to soak the bandana again, and then Dean was getting to his feet and walking towards Sam.

“Dean?” Sam asked again. He looked more than a little nervous. “What’s going on?”

Dean jerked his head at Ash, who was leaning on the wall next to Sam and quietly watching everything going on. “Like he said, it’s kind of a miracle. Now hold still.”

Before Sam could protest or move, Dean tugged up Sam’s bloodied pant leg and wrapped the bandana around his shredded ankle. Sam hissed and made an aborted move to grab at his ankle, but Ash stopped him with a gentle hand to his shoulder. Under his hands, Dean could practically feel the water draining out of the bandana and into Sam’s wound. He pulled the bandana away once the cloth had completely dried and sure enough, the skin underneath was whole again.

Grinning in relief and triumph, Dean looked up at Sam’s face. “See?” he said. “Kind of a miracle.”

Sam gaped at his ankle, just as speechless as Dean had been a little while ago. Ash snorted and shook his head before pushing away from the wall. He walked over to help Jo, who had started struggling to sit up. Ellen was watching Sam and Dean, expectant of something. What it was, Dean couldn’t guess.

Sam, though, seemed to know exactly what to ask. Tearing his eyes away from his healed ankle, he took in the carvings around them. “This place,” he said, eyes lingering on the coiled serpent on the ceiling, “it’s got power to it.”

Ellen nodded.

“Is that,” he pointed at the hand pump with one trembling hand. “Is that blessed water?”

“You’re a clever one.” Ellen stood and dusted off her knees. Beside her, Ash hoisted Jo up to her feet and then let her lean on him. “It’s blessed water, all right,” Ellen said. “Passed down from the guardian himself.”

Dean nodded, sharing a glance with Sam. “Missouri told us about it.”

“Shoulda guessed Miss Moseley had something to do with y’all knowing ‘bout it.” Ellen glanced at Jo who, while better than she had before the healing, still looked a little wan. “Let’s go topside. My daughter needs to rest, and I reckon we need to catch up a bit.”

=

Night had fallen while they’d been underground, and the smoke had bled out of the air, though the smell of it still hung around like a malignant ghost. The group decided not to wander too far into the Roadhouse’s ruins, settling down in the room that contained the trap door. It was, after all, the only room in the Roadhouse still partially standing. As Ellen helped Jo get comfortable, Dean sent Sam to fetch their horses and packs. Ash trailed after him, saying that there might still be some supplies in the dilapidated bar. Dean himself wandered the perimeter of the room, checking for firewood and also making sure there weren’t any nasty surprises in wait for them.

The men returned to the room one at a time, Dean first, then Sam and Ash. Dean built a small fire with what unburned scraps of wood he’d found, and Sam and Ash gave out food to everyone. The group ate in silence, staring at the fire, each lost in their own thoughts.

“So,” Dean said, once everyone was done. Jo had fallen asleep after she’d finished eating, so Dean kept his voice pitched low as he talked. “What in the name of all that breathes happened here? Why were there Cursed Hounds all over the place?”

“One word,” Ash said. “Meg.”

“She showed up last night,” Ellen explained. “Demanded access to the blessed water. She didn’t like it much when we said no.”

Dean blanched. “But Cas,” he said, before stopping himself.

Ellen gave him a level, patient look. “We know who Castiel is,” she said. “You think we could’ve been serving the guardian for generations without learning his name?”

“Oh,” Dean said, blinking. “All right, that makes sense. Well, Cas told me that Meg didn’t know about the blessed water. He was pretty sure of it.”

“He would’ve been right, except,” Ellen sighed, looking both tired and guilty. “We indirectly told her.”

Sam tilted his head. “How?”

“You know that ritual that we did to you two?” Ellen nodded at the trap door. “It uses blessed water.”

“Hold on,” Dean said, leaning forward and frowning. “You gave Meg - the _witch_ \- blessed water?”

“The water acts as a final test,” Ellen said. “Only those untainted by dark magic, curses, and the like can drink it without being hurt.”

“You let Meg into the desert,” Sam said. “So what, she passed?”

Ellen nodded.

“Tell you another thing,” Ash said, pointing at Sam and Dean. “When I tested her for magic, like I did with you, Sam, I didn’t get so much as a twitch.”

Dean stared at Ash, incredulous. “Let me see if I understand this,” he said. “Meg, who is undoubtedly a witch, didn’t have magic when she came into this desert.”

Both Ellen and Ash nodded this time.

“How is that even possible?”

“Dunno.” Ellen shrugged, though her brow was creased with thought. “Ask next time you catch up with her.”

“I think I will,” Dean said, voice dark with promise. “After I’ve got Cas free and the desert safe.”

“Speaking of,” Sam said, looking at Ellen and Ash. “Missouri said that we’d need some blessed water to free Castiel.”

“I ain’t surprised. If Castiel is in trouble, then he’ll need some heavy magic to be saved.” Ellen glanced up at the stars, and then looked towards Jo. “We’ll give it to you. For now, though, we should get some rest. Reckon we’ve all had a long enough day.”

Dean looked to Sam, then back at Ellen. “We’ll keep watch,” he said.

No one protested his statement, and soon Ellen and Ash were spread out on the ground near Jo, sleeping soundly. Dean and Sam stayed on the far side of the campfire, eyes on the doorway leading into the room.

“A witch without magic,” Dean murmured. “Ever hear of that back at your university, Sam?”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam shake his head. “There’s no way for magic users to hide their magic from one another. Not even the most powerful mages can do it.”

“So how d’you think Meg tricked them? It ain’t like they aren’t sharp enough. They figured out we were hunters in the first five minutes of talking to us.”

Sam was quiet for a long moment. “I know this sounds ridiculous,” he said slowly, “but what if she didn’t have magic when she met them?”

“And what, suddenly gained it further down the road?” Dean huffed out a small laugh. “I don’t know if I buy into that, Sammy.”

“I know, I know, but it’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”

“And even then, it doesn’t make too much sense.” Dean sighed and shook his head. “And I was just starting to think we’d solved most of the mysteries to this whole thing.”

“I guess we haven’t,” Sam said quietly. When Dean looked over, Sam had tilted his head back to look at the stars. “But I’ve got a feeling we will, and soon.”

=

It seemed like a small eternity before dawn arrived. Dean had barely been able to sleep, too expectant of something disastrous happening to let his guard down. Sam, however, had fallen asleep halfway through the night, which was good. At least one of them would be well rested for the hard ride they had ahead of them.

Everyone woke shortly before dawn, the light of the morning sun filtering into the room in golden slants. They had breakfast around the remnants of last night’s campfire. Jo, who looked much better than she had the night before, ate voraciously. Apparently recovering from a near fatal wound worked up your appetite.

After the meal was over, Ellen sent Ash down the tunnel with some earthen jugs. Sam and Dean packed as they waited for him to return, and once that was done, Sam tried to convince Ellen to come with them.

“Sorry,” Ellen said, shaking her head. “I’ve got too much to do to get tangled up in this hunt you’ve fallen into.”

“But you’re not safe here,” Sam said. “What if more Cursed Hounds show up? Or worse, Meg?”

“I doubt she will. For someone who’s clever enough to trap a guardian, she seems a little arrogant.” Ellen’s mouth curved up into a strange smile. “Reckon she thinks her dogs managed to kill us easy.”

“Well, if you won’t come, then you should leave the desert. With what’s happening here—“

“Nope, we can’t.” Ellen’s smile was much more genuine this time around. “I know you don’t understand, Sam, but we have a duty. The Great Desert needs its gatekeepers.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “But—“

Jo stepped up beside him and smacked his shoulder. “Let it go,” she said. “If Ma’s made up her mind, then you ain’t budging her.”

Sam frowned down at her, then looked over at Dean, silently asking for help. All Dean could do was shrug helplessly. Breathing a sigh through his nose, Sam turned back to Ellen and Jo.

“Fine,” he said. “But the moment things go bad again, you get to safety, all right?”

Jo scoffed. “You talk like we don’t know how to defend ourselves,” she said. “We’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” Ellen said. “In fact, I’m more worried about y’all than I am about us. So _y’all_ better stay safe.”

“No promises,” Dean said.

Ash popped his head out from the trap door. “What’s this about promising?”

Ellen shook her head. “Just the boys being foolish. Didja bring it?”

“Sure.” Ash levered himself off the ladder, revealing two pairs of earthen jugs tied together and slung over his shoulders. They sloshed as they swung at the end of their tethers. “Think this’ll do for y’all?”

“I think it’ll do just fine,” Dean said. He stepped over to Ash and took a pair of jugs, holding them by the handles. They were much heavier than he’d expected, and he dipped a little with the weight. “Let’s just get these on the horses, yeah?”

Together, Dean and Ash tied two jugs each to the horses’ saddles, taking extra care to make sure they were secure and wouldn’t break. As they worked, Dean noticed that Sam was talking quietly to Ellen. He tried to give the storybook back to Ellen, who shook her head and pushed it back towards Sam. She said something too quiet for Dean to hear, but it made Sam duck his head and mumble something in return. Smiling, Ellen patted his shoulder and then led him over to the horses.

“Reckon you should get on the road soon,” Ellen said once she was close enough. “Meg ain’t gonna wait for you to catch up.”

“Yes ma’am.” Dean swung into Baby’s saddle, and Sam mounted his own horse a beat later. Once he was settled, he touched the brim of his hat and nodded in Ellen, Jo, and Ash’s direction. “Thank you for the help. Again.”

“You did your part, with the dogs and all.” Ellen smiled. “Safe riding. We’ll see you when you’re done.”

“Kick her ass,” Jo said, earning a cuff from Ellen. She went on regardless. “And if you end up getting killed, we’ll never forgive you.”

“What she said,” Ash added.

“All right, all right.” Glancing at Sam, who nodded at him, Dean clicked his tongue and turned Baby towards the road. He gave one last wave to the Roadhouse gang before turning to face forward again. Soon they were heading north, and the ruins of the Roadhouse were out of sight.

Things were quiet between Dean and Sam for a long stretch, until Sam cleared his throat and quietly asked, “Do you think we’ll see them again?”

Dean’s grip tightened on Baby’s reins, and his jaw clenched, but he tried to keep his expression blank as he said, “Let’s hope so.”

=

The ride to Salvation was quiet, each day blurring into the next as Sam and Dean rushed to make it to the town before Meg. They didn’t see anyone on the road, nor did they see signs of travelers. However, each waypoint now housed a full well, along with Meg’s mark. Every mark made Dean go a little bit faster, a little bit harder. If Meg had already touched these wells, then what were the odds that she was already in Salvation?

He got his answer four days later, as they rode through the entrance to Salvation. The noonday sun was blazing and harsh above them, chasing the shadows into hiding. The town’s streets were empty, all the doors and windows shut tight against the heat. It made sense, logically, why Salvation appeared empty - the town didn’t come alive until dark - but Dean still felt his hackles rise in response to the quiet. There seemed to be a tense air to it, and he didn’t like it.

“Dean,” Sam said, voice low. The quiet seemed to be getting to him, too, and his eyes scanned over everything as he spoke. “Should we visit Rufus first, or the well?”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Why would we go see Rufus first?”

“Because he might’ve heard something about Meg. What if she tried contacting him, like when she sent a crow to that village’s leader?”

“And then we’d know when Meg was planning on arriving,” Dean said, voice distant as he thought. “But what if she’s already come and gone?”

“Then Rufus could tell us that, too.” Sam gave Dean a level look. “C’mon, you know I’m right.”

Dean sighed. “All right, all right. Let’s go.”

Taking one of the curving side streets, Sam and Dean quickly made their way to Rufus’s house. Just as it came into sight, though, Dean hissed a breath out between his teeth and signaled Sam to stop. A pair of four-legged figures paced in front of Rufus’s house. While Dean couldn’t make out any details from this far away, something about the way those animals carried themselves told him exactly what they were.

“Cursed Hounds,” he muttered. “Shit.”

“We’re too late,” Sam said. His words were shaky.

Dean cursed again and wheeled Baby around, taking another street. Sam quietly called out his name, and then moved to catch up with Dean.

“What’re you doing?” Sam asked, brow furrowed.

“Checking the fountain,” Dean said shortly.

“But Rufus—“

“If you’re worried about him, then go keep an eye on the house. That way if anything happens, Rufus won’t be completely defenseless.”

Sam stared at him incredulously, and looked ready to argue Dean down. Something on Dean’s face, though, gave him pause, and after a second Sam closed his mouth and briefly shook his head.

“Fine,” he said. “But if anything happens to either to us, we give each other a signal. All right?”

Dean shrugged and nodded. “Sure. I’ll whistle.”

Satisfied, Sam turned his horse around and went back towards Rufus’s house. Most likely he’d keep his distance and just watch, unless the Hounds became a more active threat. Dean knew Sam could handle himself, and so he turned all his attention to getting to the well.

The central courtyard came into view in only a handful of minutes, as did the fountain in its center. Crouched next to it, an ominous shadow that was stark in comparison to its surroundings, was Meg’s stagecoach. Dean glanced around, and didn’t quite believe what he saw at first. There wasn’t a single Cursed Hound in sight, and even Meg’s crow was gone. The stagecoach appeared to be abandoned. Hesitantly, Dean nudged Baby a few steps further into the courtyard. Nothing happened. No growling, no flapping of wings. It was completely still.

Dean grunted, disbelieving. He trotted Baby even further, until he was only a few yards away from the stagecoach. Everything stayed quiet. He realized, then, that there really weren’t any guards lurking in wait, that there wasn’t a trap ready to spring shut around him. The stagecoach was completely abandoned.

It struck him, all at once, like a punch to the chest. He felt both elation and dread in one dizzying sweep. This was it. This was his chance to save Castiel.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rescue. Things fall apart. A serpent. A beginning.

The courtyard remained quiet, almost ominously so, as Dean tied Baby off to a nearby porch railing and unfastened the blessed water from her saddle. He didn’t let the stillness lull him into a false sense of security, though, and kept himself on high alert. Drawing his sword and shouldering the jugs of water, Dean flicked his gaze in every direction he could manage as he slowly approached the stagecoach. Nothing moved. No one burst out from any of the houses, armed and raving. And yet there was still this strange tension, this fraught feeling, hanging in the air. It was as if the entirety of Salvation were holding its breath.

Dirt scuffed quietly under Dean’s feet as he came to a stop in front of the stagecoach’s door. Taking a soft, steadying breath, Dean reached out and gently tried the door’s handle.

It was unlocked.

If Dean hadn’t been uneasy before, he was now. Everything was starting to smell like a trap. Dean let go of the door handle and rocked back on his heels, thinking rapidly. If there was no immediate threat outside the stagecoach, then there must be something waiting to spring out at him inside, hoping to catch him with his guard down. It was the only thing that made sense. Too bad Dean was far too wary to allow himself to be caught unawares like that.

Dean’s mouth pulled into a tight, concentrated line as he gripped his sword a little tighter. Shifting to stand besides the door instead of in front of it, he reached out, gripped the door handle again, and turned it. When nothing happened, he pulled the door open in one swift motion and stood still beside it, sword in a two handed grip, braced for whatever was inside.

Nothing leapt out of the stagecoach, and Dean didn’t hear anything shuffling around inside. After a handful of breaths, Dean slowly, cautiously moved until he could just peek through the doorway. A soft, flickering light illuminated the coach’s rough wooden interior, and from what Dean could see, there was nothing there. He waited a little longer, watching to see if anything would move. When nothing happened, Dean moved out of his hiding spot and stepped into the stagecoach.

It was wide and bare, painted a dark color that was indiscernible in the low light. The area near the front of the coach was empty, Dean’s shadow painted long in front of him as he looked in that direction. The flickering light source was in the back of the coach, and when he turned to look at it, his breath caught.

There was a circle of fire, no wider than a yard, at the back of the stagecoach. Sitting in the center of it, slumped forward and head down, was a naked, dark-haired man.

Heart in his throat, Dean stepped closer to the flames. It was hard to tell, what with the man’s face out of sight, but the set of his shoulders and his body’s frame were more than a little familiar. Swallowing hard, Dean said in a low, raspy voice, “Cas?”

The man looked up. It was definitely Castiel, eyes dark and frightened in the firelight. When he caught sight of Dean, his face relaxed, and he managed the smallest sliver of a smile. “Dean.”

Dean couldn’t help but return the smile. It was good, in an odd way, finally seeing the man who’d been visiting his dreams in the flesh. Even if the circumstances were less than optimal.

“Good to see you, finally,” Dean said, stopping at the very border of the ring. “You all right?”

Castiel stood, grimacing and pressing a hand against his chest as he moved. “I’ve been better, honestly.”

When Castiel dropped his hand back to his side, Dean couldn’t help the way he instinctively recoiled. Castiel was scarily thin, almost wasted away, but that wasn’t the most shocking thing about his appearance. Cut into Castiel’s skin was a sigil, consisting of a large rune encircled with a line and a handful of smaller runes. It gleamed dully in the light, almost as if it were fresh, or couldn’t heal.

“What,” Dean said, and couldn’t go any further. His throat felt tight, his mouth dry. Fortunately, Castiel was able to understand what Dean was trying to ask, as he followed Dean’s gaze to his chest.

“Ah,” Castiel said. He pressed light fingers against his sternum, above the lines of the sigil. “It’s a spell.”

Dean’s throat clicked as he swallowed, and he managed to get out a quiet, “What’s it do?”

“It—“ The sigil flared to life, glowing a fiery red, and Castiel pressed a hand against it with a grunt of pain. Slowly, over the span of a few minutes, the light faded away. Castiel’s hand was shaking as he lowered it again, and there were tight lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Shrugging helplessly, Castiel repeated, “It’s a spell.”

“Yes, I got that.” Dean eyes dropped back to the sigil, thinking through what had just happened. Castiel remained silent, letting him figure it out. Finally, Dean asked, “Is it a silencing spell?”

The sigil glowed again, this time white instead of red. Castiel sighed in what sounded like relief. He nodded.

“Who did this to you? Meg?”

Another nod.

Anger swept through Dean, and he couldn’t help the low growl that pushed out of his throat. It was yet another thing Dean would have to make sure Meg was held accountable for. It was only a matter of time before he hunted her down and made her pay for the ways she’d made Castiel suffer.

For now, though, Dean couldn’t let himself linger on his rage. There was a guardian that needed saving, and he’d waited long enough to be freed.

“You won’t have to worry about her for much longer,” Dean said, sheathing his sword and letting the jugs of blessed water drop gently onto the floor. “I’m here to bust you out.”

Castiel watched with eager eyes as Dean untied a jug from its tethers. “Make sure to douse all the flames,” he said softly. “Even the smallest remnants of the fire could harm me.”

And so Dean went to work, steadily pouring water on the ring of fire. It hissed and spat as the water hit it, dark smoke coming off of it as it reluctantly died. Dean worked slowly and carefully, and the only time he paused was to fetch the rest of the water when the first jug ran out. By the time the entire fire was out, there was only a small amount of blessed water left.

“There,” Dean said quietly, relief making him smile. He straightened and turned to face Castiel. “You’re—“

A light, warm body fell into Dean, and he wrapped his arms around it instinctively. Castiel had collapsed against Dean, weak and trembling. Arms wrapped around Dean’s neck and a face buried itself into his neck. Dean wasn’t sure if the shakes wracking Castiel’s body were caused by sobs or laughter.

After a frozen, confused moment, Dean tightened his arms around Castiel in a firm embrace. “It’s all right, Cas,” he said, “I’ve got you.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel said, voice thick and unsteady. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

=

Castiel tried to walk out of the stagecoach on his own, but his legs were as shaky as a newborn colt’s. Dean let Castiel lean on him, but he didn’t offer to carry him. Something in the tilt of Castiel’s chin told Dean that the suggestion would be less than welcome. 

When they stepped out of the stagecoach, Castiel stopped, took a deep breath, and tilted his face towards the sun. His expression was serene. “It’s been so long,” he murmured. “Too long.”

Dean was loath to pull Castiel along when he was reveling in his freedom, so he let the guardian be as he went over to Baby and dug through his saddlebags. Soon he came up with his spare duster. It’d be a little big on Castiel, but it was better than making him walk around naked. Shaking it out, Dean realized it was the same color as the one Castiel had taken to wearing in their dreams.

“Odd,” he said quietly, and then shook his head. There were more important things to dwell on at the moment than the color of a duster.

Castiel was still basking when Dean came back. “Here,” Dean said, draping the duster over Castiel’s shoulders. “This’ll have to do until I’ve got time to find you some real clothes.”

Castiel reached up to clutch at the duster’s lapels, and cracked an eye open to look at Dean. “You humans have the oddest sense of decency, sometimes,” he said. He then smiled and wrapped the duster a little tighter around himself. “Thank you.”

Dean ducked his head a little. “Don’t mention it.” Clearing his throat, he said, “Now, I hate to sound pushy, but we should probably find Sam and get moving.”

“Yes,” Castiel said, and glanced back at the stagecoach. “That’s probably for the best.”

When Dean led Castiel over to Baby, he was sure his horse would make some sort of protest. She was never fond of people outside of Dean (and sometimes Sam) approaching her. But instead she placidly watched Castiel come near, ears tilted forward in curiosity. She even pushed her head forward into his chest and snuffled, getting his scent. Castiel smiled at Baby and gently stroked a hand down her nose.

“That’s interesting,” Dean said. “Baby doesn’t normally take too kindly to new people.”

“Animals like me,” Castiel said, and left it at that. Patting Baby one more time, he stepped over to her side. “However, I can’t say I’m familiar with riding a horse.”

Taking the hint, Dean helped Castiel up into Baby’s saddle. After he was settled, Dean swung up in front of him. Baby took the extra weight without complaint. After a brief moment’s hesitation, Dean took Castiel’s wrists and guided them around his waist.

“Just so you don’t fall off,” Dean mumbled. To his embarrassment, he could feel his ears getting hot.

Castiel, thankfully, didn’t say anything. He gently squeezed Dean’s middle and rested his head between Dean’s shoulderblades. Dean figured that meant he was ready to go, so he clicked his tongue at Baby and nudged her out of the courtyard and onto a nearby street.

“Where is Sam, anyway?” Castiel asked after a few minutes of quiet riding. “I thought he would be with you.”

“He’s watching Gordon’s house,” Dean said. “There’s Cursed Hounds skulking around there, and we figured it was smarter to split up so that we could keep an eye on them.”

“Cursed Hounds,” Castiel said softly. Thanks to their proximity to one another, Dean felt the gentle shudder that ran through Castiel’s body. “If they’re there, then surely their mistress is nearby.”

“I reckon that she’s talking to Gordon. About what, though, I’ve no idea.”

“She’s parlaying for permission to heal the well,” Castiel said.

Dean turned his head to look at Castiel over his shoulder, getting an eyeful of dark, messy hair. “What?”

“Her methods may be twisted, but since her magic uses _my_ blood, she must ask for permission before affecting any of the great wells. Meg can get permission either from the town as a whole, or from one of its leaders. Normally she goes for the former, as it’s easier to obtain.”

“But since most of Salvation’s asleep,” Dean said, “she has to go to an elder.”

Dean felt Castiel nod. “And she isn’t above using force to get a yes, hence the Cursed Hounds.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re here.” Making sure Castiel was holding on tightly, Dean kicked Baby into a trot. “We’ll get rid of her dogs, catch her off guard, and—”

Castiel squeezed Dean’s chest tightly, cutting him off. “No,” he said sharply.

“No?” Dean repeated, incredulous. “But Cas—”

“She’s far too strong to face directly at the moment. Almost nothing can successfully stand against her.” With a sigh, Castiel added, “Myself included.”

Dean reined Baby to a sharp halt, exasperated. “Then what d’you propose we do?”

“I have a plan that will heal my desert and weaken Meg at the same time. But it requires leaving her be for now.”

Dean shook his head, face set into a hard expression. “I’m sorry, Cas, but I don’t think I can let her alone. Not after what she’s done to the desert. To you.”

“I’m only asking for you to leave her alone _right now_.” Reaching up, Castiel gently touched Dean’s chin, making him look around. Castiel was watching him with a slightly pleading expression. “She will get what she deserves, but not now. To attack her now would be foolhardy.”

They stared at each other for a long, drawn out moment. Then Dean huffed out a sigh and looked forward again. “All right,” he said. “We’ll get Sam and head out.”

Castiel sighed, and gently rested his forehead against Dean’s back again. “Thank you.”

Dean shrugged a shoulder. “You haven’t led me wrong yet, Cas. I kinda trust you.”

He couldn’t see Castiel’s smile, but the way he tightened his grip around Dean’s middle and leaned into him spoke volumes. “And I you.”

=

They found Sam crouched around the corner a couple houses down from Gordon’s place. He turned around at the sound of approaching hoofbeats, sword up and ready, but then relaxed when he realized who it was. “I was starting to think I’d have to get rid of those beasts on my own,” he said.

Dean scoffed. “Like I’d let you hog all the fun.” He leaned over in the saddle a little, letting Castiel become visible to Sam. “Sam, this is Cas. I think you’ve met once before.”

Sam’s eyes widened in surprise, and then he smiled a little. Bobbing his head in greeting, he said, “It’s nice to finally meet you in the flesh, Castiel.”

“Likewise,” Castiel said.

“Does this mean we’re going after Meg now?” Sam asked, eyes flicking to Dean. “Nothing’s happened yet, but I don’t know how much longer that’ll be true.”

Reluctantly, Dean shook his head. “Cas says not yet.”

“What?” Sam looked just as incredulous as Dean had felt a short while ago. “Why not?”

“I will explain,” Cas said, “after we leave Salvation.”

Sam’s lifted a brow. “And where are we going?”

“South.”

“To Deepwell?” Dean shook his head. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but it’s still in ruins.”

“No.” Castiel frowned a little, as if Dean and Sam were intentionally being difficult. “Off the road. To the center of my desert.”

Sam frowned right back at Castiel. “Last time we went off the road, I - well, we - ended up going astray.”

“That’s because you didn’t have me with you,” Castiel said, matter of fact. From anyone else, it would’ve been insulting, but he said it so easily that it didn’t even occur to Dean to be offended. Sam merely blinked in the wake of Castiel’s confidence, and then shook his head.

“All right,” Sam said, and then turned to mount his horse. “Lead the way, then.”

Castiel inclined his head, expression grave. Dean straightened back up in the saddle, and Castiel immediately wrapped his arms around him again. Once they were both settled, Dean asked, “Where to, Cas?”

Without hesitation, Castiel pointed to their left, towards the town’s limits. Nodding once, Dean headed off in that direction, Sam right behind him. He gave a parting glance in the direction of Gordon’s house, hoping that they wouldn’t later regret leaving Meg and the Cursed Hounds unchallenged.

=

“I’m sure you have questions,” Castiel said, once Salvation was nothing more than a dark shape on the horizon. Soon it would be out of sight, and they’d be at the mercy of the unchanging, featureless desert. Hopefully Castiel hadn’t been bluffing about his navigational skills.

“I have a few,” Dean said. “But I bet Sam has more. He’s the more curious one.”

He felt Castiel shift to look behind him. “Sam?”

“Well,” Sam said. “First things first, I guess. What’s Meg doing to the wells?”

Castiel sighed. “Reviving them,” he said. “But not in the correct way. She’s forcing my powers to involuntarily heal the wells, and in this way she’s tainting them.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam said after a moment.

“As a guardian, I have the ability to maintain and heal the water sources in my desert. However, I have to do it with the correct spell and ritual. Meg,” Castiel spat out the name like a curse, “has replaced the ritual with one of her own, and is using my blood as a way to tap into my powers.”

“She can use blood magic?” Sam sounded shocked and afraid, and Dean cringed a little. He’d deliberately avoided mentioning Meg’s use of blood magic, not wanting to make Sam panic. Looked like it was too late for that.

“Yes, and that’s the crux of the problem. A guardian is made of much sterner stuff than a human. Using any part of them in a spell - skin, hair, scales, blood - can have negative effects on a human.” There was a pause, and when Castiel spoke again, his voice was heavy with guilt. “I am, essentially, poisoning my own desert.”

Neither Dean nor Sam knew what to say to that. Hesitantly, Dean reached up and laid his hand over one of Castiel’s and squeezed. He couldn’t see Castiel’s reaction from where he sat, but he didn’t move away from Dean’s touch, which seemed like a good sign.

“We’ll fix it, Cas,” Dean said.

“Yes,” Castiel said, and his voice cracked on the word. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Yes. We will. We must.”

“I think the rest of my questions can wait,” Sam said quietly after a moment. “No offense, Castiel, but you look exhausted.”

Now that Sam mentioned it, Dean noticed the way Castiel’s hand shook faintly under his. Glancing westward, he noted the setting sun and said, “Reckon we can make camp for the night.”

Castiel made a sound of protest. “I’m all right,” he said, “we can keep going.”

“Nope. We can push longer tomorrow, but we can’t do that unless we get some rest tonight. All right?”

With a quiet sigh, Castiel rested his head against Dean’s back so Dean could feel him nod. Smiling a little, Dean slowed Baby down from a trot to a walk, and started looking for a good place to camp.

=

Camp ended up being little more than a small fire pit dug into the dirt, with Sam and Dean’s bedrolls on one side and the horses resting on the other. Night fell as they put the camp together, as silent and heavy as a blanket. They ate soon after camp was set up, though Castiel refused to partake in any of the food. He was a guardian, he said, and wasn’t subject to the same needs as a human.

“Then why do you look like you haven’t eaten in weeks?” Dean asked, giving Castiel’s bony arms and prominent ribs a pointed look. The only clothing Castiel still had was the duster Dean gave him, and that was pooled around his hips where he sat cross-legged on the ground.

“It’s a side effect of Meg’s magic.” Castiel touched gentle fingers to his own stomach, which had a caved-in look to it. “Once we arrive at our destination, I’ll be able to heal myself.”

“Where are we going, anyway?” Sam asked, brows lightly pinched together. “What’s in the center of the desert?”

Castiel made to speak, but the sigil on his chest flared to fiery life, cutting off his words. When the light died away again, he said, “You’ll have to wait and see.”

Dean scowled at the sigil, and then stood. Sam and Castiel watched as he went over to Sam’s packs.

“Can I help you?” Sam asked. “That’s my stuff, after all.”

Dean shook his head. “I just wanted to get this,” he said, and then lifted one of the earthenware jugs out of Sam’s things and brought it back to the fire.

Castiel recognized it immediately. “You have more blessed water?”

“Ellen made sure we were well prepared.” Pointing at Castiel’s chest, Dean asked, “Will this work on that?”

“I’m not sure.” Castiel looked doubtful as he glanced southward. “This sigil is made of powerful magic. It may need something stronger than blessed water to heal it.”

“What’s stronger than blessed water?” Sam asked.

This time Castiel didn’t even have time to attempt speaking. The sigil flickered once, making him grunt in brief pain. With an apologetic look, he merely shook his head.

Dean growled. “Well, we’re gonna try anyway,” he said. He knelt beside Castiel and took the lid off the blessed water. After rifling through his pockets for a moment, he came up with a relatively clean bandana, which he dipped into the water and then pressed against Castiel’s chest.

Castiel flinched minutely, hissing something under his breath, but he didn’t tell Dean to stop. The sigil glowed red again, light pulsing like a heartbeat, and Dean could feel the heat of it under his hand. He persisted, though, and pressed the cloth to every inch of Castiel’s marred skin before he leaned back to survey his work.

The sigil was still visible, but it no longer looked like a fresh wound. Scabs now covered the marks, making it appear much less threatening in the firelight.

“How’s that feel?” Dean asked, rocking back on his heels a little.

“Better,” Castiel said. Sweat stood out on his face, but he wore an expression of surprised relief. “And the magic feels weaker. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Well, I ain’t questioning it.” Putting the water and bandana aside, Dean sat next to Castiel. “I’m just glad you’re better.”

“Yes.” With a faint smile, Castiel reached out and lightly brushed his fingers along the back of Dean’s hand. “Thank you.”

Thankfully, the unsteady light from the campfire hid Dean’s blush. Sam, though, had noticed the small interaction, and was watching Dean curiously. Dean looked away from both Sam and Castiel, his face hotter than ever, and after a moment he pulled back from Castiel’s touch. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Castiel tilt his head, but he resisted the urge to glance over. It wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have right now. Especially not in front of Sam.

The awkward silence that the trio fell into was broken a moment later by a great, thundering sound. The ground shook under them, startling the horses out of their slumber. Soon the shaking diminished to a slight, consistent tremble that was somehow even more unnerving than the initial movement.

Dean pressed both hands against the dirt, more than a little scared. He looked over at Sam, who looked pale in the unreliable light. Dean said, “What in the name of all that breathes—”

“No!” Castiel said, standing abruptly. His horrorstruck gaze was directed northward. “No, it’s impossible!”

“Cas—”

There was a large, sickening _crack_ , and then light burst into being on the northern horizon. Dean shouted in surprise and shielded his eyes, staggering to his feet next to Castiel. The horses whinnied in panic, and Sam yelled something, but all of that faded into the background. Dean was too focused on the light in the north to notice anything else.

It had dimmed from its initial bloom, making it less painful to look at. It seemed to swirl in a large circle, more like liquid than light. Silhouetted against this light, looking like it was cut out of black paper, was the town of Salvation.

Dean was about to ask what was happening when the light froze and changed color, going from white to a rusty red that reminded Dean of old blood. It pooled around Salvation, briefly hiding the town from sight, and then shot upwards, becoming a twisted column that disappeared into the depths of the sky. The ground began to shake more fiercely again, making Dean struggle to stay upright, and a screech tore through the air. Under that horrible noise, Dean thought he heard Castiel yell. Turning, he saw that Castiel was on his knees, one hand over his mouth and the other clutched over his heart, expression distraught. Tears rolled unheeded down his face.

And then, as suddenly as it started, it was over. The light pulsed once, twice, and then vanished without a trace. The earth went still once more. The silence it left in its wake was deafening. Dean stood there for a moment, blinking rapidly in the darkness, and then turned to look at Sam. “Everything all right?” he asked.

Sam looked shaken, but otherwise fine. He held onto both horses’ reins with unsteady hands. They must have attempted to bolt during the chaos. “Yes,” Sam said weakly. “Yes, I think I’m fine.”

Dean nodded, and then knelt beside Castiel, who was clearly not all right. Castiel rocked slightly on his knees, both hands now buried in his hair. A small, steady, keening noise came from his throat.

“Cas?” Dean pressed light fingers to Castiel’s shoulder, but Castiel flinched away from the touch. “Cas? What was that?”

Castiel curled into himself more tightly, shaking. He looked so small and afraid like that, a lone naked man in the dirt, and Dean had to resist the urge to reach out and try comforting him again. With a loud, broken sob, Castiel managed to say, “The well. Salvation’s well.”

“What about it?”

“It’s been revived.”

The blood drained out of Dean’s face, leaving his cheeks feeling cold and numb. Castiel sobbed again and shook his head.

“Salvation has fallen. The great wells have fallen. And soon my desert will fall, too.”

=

Once the desert fell quiet again, Castiel withdrew. He sat there, staring at the northern horizon without saying anything, hands resting in his lap. After a few failed attempts to talk to him, Dean left Castiel alone with whatever thoughts were running through his head and went to the other side of the campfire. Dean sat down next to Sam, eyes still fixed worriedly on Castiel.

“Do you think he’ll be all right?” Sam asked, pitching his voice low.

Dean shrugged. “I hope so.”

“How did Meg manage to revive Salvation’s well, anyway? I mean,” Sam tilted his head in Castiel’s direction, “we took away her spell’s main ingredient.”

“Dunno.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Dean asked, “Can blood be stored for stuff like this? Does it _have_ to be fresh?”

Sam shook his head. “It’s not like they taught us anything about this at the university, you know?”

“Fresh blood is preferable in spells of this caliber.”

Dean and Sam looked up, startled. Castiel stood on the other side of the campfire, duster wrapped tightly around him. He looked exhausted, shadows carving deep into the lines under his eyes, but he also had a forced level of composure about him.

“However, if you’re well-versed in the intricacies of blood magic, then you’ll know ways to keep blood relatively fresh for days, possibly weeks.” Castiel’s jaw clenched. “Clearly, Meg was storing extra portions of my blood without my knowledge.”

Sam frowned. “Why? It’s not like she had any reason to think we’d be able to free you.”

Dean thought of how the stagecoach had been unguarded, of how its doors had been unlocked. At the time, he had thought Meg was being careless. “Unless she planned on it.”

Sam rounded on him with startling speed, eyebrows raised. “What?”

In short, clipped sentences, Dean described how easy it had been to rescue Castiel. When he was done, Sam wore an expression that was akin to apprehension, and Castiel merely looked resigned.

“And here I thought we’d managed to outmaneuver her,” Castiel said, and then sighed.

“But why would she want you to be freed?” Sam asked. “That’s the part I’m not understanding.”

Castiel tilted his head, gazing into the fire as he said, “There may be a reason.”

“And what would that be?” Dean asked, when Castiel didn’t continue.

After a moment, Castiel shook his head. “It won’t matter if we manage to get to our destination quickly enough.”

“Cas—”

Castiel shook his head and turned away, clearly done with the conversation. “Starting tomorrow, we’ll have to make haste. I’d suggest you rest while you can.”

He stepped out to the boundaries of the light cast by the campfire, not waiting for either brother to say anything. Dean and Sam shared a confused, worried look. After a moment Sam shrugged and moved to bank the fire, which was the usual signal that it was time to sleep. Clearly, Sam thought that Castiel would explain when he was ready to. Dean, on the other hand, wasn’t as sure. When Castiel wanted to speak in riddles, he was exceptionally good at it.

As Sam settled onto his bedroll, Dean walked over to Castiel. He stood beside the guardian and looked out onto the night-cloaked desert, hands in his pockets, not saying anything.

After a handful of breaths, Castiel said, “You should sleep, Dean. I can keep watch.”

“I ain’t saying that you can’t,” Dean said. Shifting to look at Castiel’s face, he asked, “Are we gonna talk about this?”

Castiel didn’t look over as he asked back, “Talk about what?”

“Salvation. The wells.” Shaking his head, Dean said, “You can’t tell me you’re fine. That’d be bullshit.”

“I wasn’t going to say that. I just,” Castiel paused for a moment, at an apparent loss for words. Sighing through his nose, he finally said, “I need some space. A bit of quiet to piece everything together.”

Dean nodded. “All right. But the moment you wanna talk, you come get me, yes?”

Castiel’s smile was almost lost in the darkness of the night, but Dean managed to see it. “Of course.”

“Good.” Yawning, Dean turned and walked towards his bedroll. “‘Night, Cas.”

“Good night, Dean.”

=

True to his word, Castiel kept watch the entire night, allowing the brothers to rest. When he roused them before dawn, they packed up and rode out with little complaint. They got to watch the sun rise up from behind the mountains as they traveled south, the light bringing color back into the world.

Once again, Castiel rode in the saddle behind Dean, arms loosely wrapped around Dean’s middle. At first, Dean had fidgeted at the closeness, just as he had the day before. Unlike yesterday, though, Castiel definitely caught on to it, if the way he sighed quietly as Dean leaned away was any indication. But Sam was staring again, and Dean could feel the heat of a blush climbing up his neck, so he tried keeping his distance.

Castiel was having none of it, though. A couple hours after they broke camp, he leaned closer to Dean and said, “I’d like to ask you a question.”

Dean glanced back over his shoulder at Castiel before looking forward again. “Go ahead.”

“Why do you keep flinching away from me? I don’t understand it.”

Dean made a noise like he’d been punched in the stomach. Whatever question he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. He looked behind him once more, this time at Sam, who was following them. Sam was a few horse lengths behind them - namely, out of earshot. Reassured, Dean turned forward again and muttered, “We’re currently hauling ass to get to wherever you’re taking us so that you can fix your desert, and you choose _now_ to bring this up?”

“Yes.” Dean could almost feel the way Castiel tilted his head at him. “Unless you have something else to talk about as we ride.”

Dean didn’t. Huffing a sigh, he fidgeted with Baby’s reins as he gathered his thoughts. Castiel remained quiet, seemingly happy to wait. Finally, Dean quietly said, “I’m not used to this.”

“Used to what?”

“This whole,” Dean let go of the reins to gesture with one of his hands, “close and cuddly thing. I ain’t exactly known as being the touchy type of person.”

Castiel hummed, and then rested his forehead against Dean’s back. “If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “this is new to me, too.”

“What?”

“I’m the guardian of an entire realm. It isn’t exactly like I’ve had the opportunity for closeness with others.”

Dean looked down at his hands. “Oh.”

Castiel nodded, head still pressed against Dean’s back so that he could feel it. Silence fell between them for a moment, and then Dean cleared his throat, tried to talk again.

“Like I said, I ain’t used to being touchy. But with you, I don’t know. It’s easy. In a way that it ain’t, usually.”

“Well,” Castiel said, and then paused, humming in thought. Finally, he asked, “You like this, right?”

Heat bloomed to life in Dean’s face, but he still managed a nod.

“Good. And I like it,” Castiel said, squeezing Dean’s middle, “just so you know.”

“That’s,” Dean said, pausing to clear his throat. “That’s good, I guess.”

“So if we both enjoy it, why stop? As it isn’t a problem.” Castiel paused, hesitant. “Is it?”

Dean thought of Sam, and how he’d already noticed. Sooner or later Sam would say something. Though, now that Dean thought about it, he didn’t think that it would be anything negative. Confused, maybe, but not negative. And that was something that Dean would be able to handle, if it ever happened.

“No,” Dean said, and rested a hand on top of Castiel’s. “No, it ain’t a problem.”

“Good.” Sighing in contentment, Castiel leaned his weight against Dean’s back. “Now will you stay still? All your fidgeting makes me feel like I’m going to fall off the horse.”

Dean let out a brief laugh. “Yeah, Cas. I’ll stay put.”

=

The next couple of days were a blur of riding, stopping briefly to rest, and then riding again. Castiel kept diligent track of their progress, redirecting them if they strayed off course with the assured accuracy of a lodestone.

On the night of the second day, as they were eating supper, Castiel said, “We’ve been making great progress. We should be reaching our destination some time tomorrow morning.”

“And then the desert will be fixed,” Sam said, “right?”

Castiel nodded, but he looked distracted. “If everything goes according to plan, yes.”

“‘If’?” Dean repeated.

Castiel sighed and looked up at Dean and Sam. “What happened in Salvation has me, well. Worried.”

Dean edged a little closer to Castiel, sensing that he was about to share something important. “Worried about what?” he asked.

“The fact that Meg may have planned my escape makes me feel like she may know more than I expected her to.” Looking down at his hands, which were clasped loosely in his lap, Castiel said, “And that makes me question my plan, my expectations. What if she’s already guessed them? What if she somehow interferes?”

“Hey,” Dean said, reaching out to touch Castiel’s shoulder. “We’ve been pushing hard these last few days, and we got a head start. Reckon that we’ll get there first, with time to spare to fix everything.”

Castiel looked up at Dean. “How can you know that?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t be at least a little optimistic.”

“But—”

“We’ll make it, Cas. Promise.”

Castiel still looked a little unsure, but he still nodded. Satisfied, Dean gave Castiel’s shoulder a brief squeeze and then leaned back. Sam was watching, brows pinched together in a vague sort of frown, but he didn’t say anything then. Instead, he waited until they were settling down to sleep to speak up.

“So,” Sam said, putting Dean on alert. Nothing good had ever come out of his brother’s mouth after that word. “You and Castiel are close, yeah?”

Dean shrugged a shoulder as he worked on opening his bedroll, feigning a casualness he didn’t feel. “Yeah, I suppose we are. It’s hard not to get attached when the guy’s been walking through my dreams for the last few weeks.”

“I get that,” Sam said. “Just, you know. I’m not used to seeing it from you.”

“I know.” Looking up at Sam, he said, “Is that a problem?”

“No, it isn’t,” Sam said quickly, shaking his head. “But it’s just, I haven’t seen you act like this around anyone since—”

“Sammy,” Dean said sharply. That was a trail of thought he didn’t need to go down at that moment. When Sam went quiet, Dean glanced over at Castiel. He was sitting with the horses, which were peacefully dozing. His hand was resting casually on Baby’s back, and he looked at peace.

Taking a deep breath, Dean said, “Cas and I are just friends, all right? Good friends, but that’s it.”

“Right,” Sam said. He ran a hand through his hair, and then added quietly, “Just be careful.”

Dean flopped backwards onto his bedroll and snorted. “I’m always careful.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam roll his eyes. “Whatever you say, Dean.”

Shaking his head at Sam’s insolence, Dean rolled over so his back was facing Sam and waited for sleep to come.

=

They headed out the next day at dawn, as usual, and by the time the sun had completely cleared the mountains a speck had appeared on the southern horizon. Castiel hadn’t said anything when he saw it, and merely pointed at it, but Dean had felt the way his hands were now shaking minutely where they gripped him. Whatever that speck was, it was important.

As the hours wound by, the speck got closer, and coalesced into the shape of a spire. When they finally approached the base of it, they discovered that it towered over them, taller than the tallest building in any of the desert towns. The wind had shaped it throughout the years, and its twisted shape reminded Dean of a geyser, or something similar.

“This it, Cas?” Dean asked, looking over his shoulder.

Castiel nodded, looking up at the spire with an expression of determination. “Now,” he said, “we go inside.”

“There’s an _inside_ to this?” Sam asked. “You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Indicating the base of the spire, Castiel said, “Go to the western face, please.”

Dean shared a confused glance with Sam, then, with a shrug, nudged Baby forward. They circled it, widdershins, until they got to the side opposite of the mountains. The spire’s shadow, long and spindly, covered them completely. The base of it here was as blank as it was facing north, without any sign of an opening.

“Um,” Dean said. “Cas?”

Castiel didn’t say anything. With a brief second of awkward squirming, he managed to dismount from behind Dean. Once he had both feet on the ground, he approached the spire. It dwarfed him, made him look almost insignificant beside it. Castiel briefly glanced back at Sam and Dean before turning around again. He took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together, and pressed his palms against the stone.

White-blue light exploded from Castiel’s hands, spiraling upward along the spire until it reached the jagged top. It rested there, pulsing, and then raced back down to Castiel. Before it reached him, the light split, arcing down to the ground on either side. There was the barely-audible rumble of shifting stone, and then part of the spire’s base slid to the side, revealing an opening.

Castiel stepped back from the entrance and turned to Sam and Dean, flexing his hands almost absently as he did so. “There,” he said. “We can now go forward.”

Dean whistled lowly, impressed. “That’s a pretty nice spell, Cas.”

Castiel’s smile was thin and tired. “Thank you,” he said. “Now, we should hurry. We’re almost there.”

At Castiel’s insistence, they left the horses hobbled besides the entrance to the spire. Once they stepped through the archway, Dean could see why. A tight spiral staircase led into the depths of the earth. Stones, lit either by natural or magical means, dotted the wall at regular instances, casting a bluish glow on the stairway. Curious, Sam tapped the closest stone. Its light rippled from the point where he touched it, but that was all.

“Down?” Dean asked.

Castiel nodded. “And you will have to help me along the steps,” he said. “Opening the spire tired me more than I had originally thought.”

So they descended with Dean going first, and Castiel right behind him, holding onto Dean’s shoulder with a tight grip. Sam brought up the rear, and Dean knew that his brother was taking everything in with wide-eyed, boyish wonder. Dean, on the other hand, was more worried about Castiel.

“You doing all right?” Dean asked. He could feel Castiel’s hand just barely trembling where it clung to him. “If you need to rest, we can.”

“No,” Castiel said. “I’m fine. Besides, we’re too close to stop now.”

The stairs went on for a short eternity, carving deeper and deeper into the earth. After nearly half an hour of descending, Dean was starting to think they’d never reach the bottom. But then, ten minutes later, he realized he could smell dampness on the air. It was getting cooler with every step as well. He paused, and noticed that the stairs beneath his boots were shaking slightly, and Dean could hear the barest rumbling to accompany it.

“What is it?” Sam asked, when Dean continued to stay still.

“I think,” Dean said, not quite believing what he was saying, “I think it’s water.”

“Down here?” Even in the half light of the glowing stones, Sam’s frown was clearly visible. “Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know.” Dean shifted to look over at Castiel. “Cas?”

Castiel was looking over Dean’s shoulder, at the stairs before them, his eyes wide and hopeful. There was a spark in his eyes that hadn’t been there before they started climbing down the stairs. “Keep going,” he said softly. “Please. We’re almost there.”

Dean thought of pressing Castiel, demanding answers, but the sheer anticipation on the guardian’s face gave him pause. With a slow nod, he turned forward again and led the three of them further down the stairs.

Just a few turns later, they came to the end of the staircase. It opened up into a huge chamber, lined with more of those glowing stones. Even then, the stones’ meager light didn’t reach the chamber’s ceiling, or the walls on either side. It was a tunnel, Dean realized with a small jolt. A gigantic tunnel.

The floor was made of a smooth, dull rock, and it went out to about the halfway point of the tunnel. It abruptly ended at that point, the floor dropping off into darkness just a few yards away from where the stairs ended. The source of the rumbling, which had now reached a loud, bass roar, came from this darkness.

“What,” Dean began, but was cut off when Castiel pushed off of him. The guardian staggered on shaky legs towards the dark half of the tunnel, pausing at its edge. Dean watched as Castiel tilted his head back, spread his arms wide on either side of him, and then dove into the darkness.

With a yelp of Castiel’s name, Dean scrambled to the spot where Castiel disappeared, Sam right behind him. Looking over the edge, Dean discovered a wide, rushing river, gleaming wetly in the light of the stones. The light wasn’t strong enough to penetrate the depths of the water, though, and Dean was left to uselessly scan the surface for any sign of Castiel.

“Why would he,” Dean said, trying not to recognize the panic building up in him. “Cas!”

Sam touched a hesitant hand to Dean’s shoulder, ready to say something reassuring. But then the surface of the river broke as something rose out of it, water cascading down in a huge splash. Both brothers scrambled out of the way to avoid getting soaked, and then stopped to stare at the thing that had just emerged from the river.

It was a crested serpent, so large that its head seemed to brush the barely visible ceiling. Its white scales practically glowed in the faint light of the tunnel. It regarded Sam and Dean with cold blue eyes, its slit pupils blown wide in the semi-darkness.

“By the creator,” Sam whispered. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watched as Sam took a few more steps back, his hand going for his greatsword. Dean, though, remained motionless. There was something familiar about this serpent, something that made him think of a half-remembered conversation.

_”Finally. I found you.”_

_”Why would anyone be looking for me? I’m right here.”_

_“You called.”_

Sam unsheathed his sword, and the glint of light on metal caught the serpent’s attention. It turned to regard him for a moment, and then it turned its attention back to Dean. Dean had just a moment to feel a rush of nerves before the serpent moved forward, eyes intent on him.

“Dean,” Sam said, bringing his sword up. Dean, however, motioned him still. He wanted to see what this creature was going to do.

The serpent pressed its head against Dean’s chest, making him stagger, and snuffled. Hot air blew into Dean’s face. When the serpent didn’t move any further, Dean reached up to rest a shaky hand on its snout. Its scales were smooth, almost soft, under his hands. Water beaded along its hide, and Dean smoothed some of the wetness away with his fingers.

“I know you,” Dean murmured.

The serpent huffed, and a voice rang through Dean’s head, rough and amused. _I would certainly hope so._

Dean’s eyes widened. “Cas?”

 _Of course._ The serpent - _Castiel_ \- huffed again, and Dean figured it was his version of laughter. _Who else would I be?_

Dean let out a shaky laugh, and looked over at Sam. His brother had lowered his sword, and was staring at Castiel with a look of shock and awe. Looking back at Castiel, Dean said, “Sorry, I didn’t guess that you could turn into a giant snake.”

Castiel drew himself up, affronted. _I’m not a_ snake, he said. _I’m most similar to a water dragon, thank you._

“Well excuse me,” Dean said, amused. “I ain’t exactly an expert at labeling mythical creatures.”

“Why are you like that?” Sam asked. “Does it have to do with the river?”

 _Very astute, Sam._ Bobbing his head in the semblance of a nod, Castiel said, _This river is the source of all water within my desert. It is very similar to blessed water, albeit stronger. It brims with magic, and I can use that magic to heal myself and regain my lost strength._

“Is that why you’re all scaly?” Dean asked. “You’re all powered up?”

 _Yes._ Castiel stretched his head back, letting out a quiet rumble of satisfaction. _I was unable to shift while under Meg’s hold. To do so now is so very freeing. Now, if you’ll excuse me._

Turning, Castiel plunged his head back under the water with what could only be labeled as glee. Dean laughed a little as water splashed over the banks of the river, happy because Castiel clearly was. Once the river was settled again, Dean turned to grin at Sam.

“We did it,” Dean said. “We actually did it.”

Sam nodded. “He can probably use the river to heal the desert, right? Since they connect to every well out there?”

“Reckon that’s about right.” Jerking his head towards the further depths of the tunnel, Dean said, “C’mon, let’s explore while Cas frolics or whatever.”

Namely, Dean wanted to look at something that had caught his eye while Castiel had been talking. It was a crack in the wall of the tunnel, maybe a hundred yards away. A steady, blue light was leaking through the crack, and Dean was more than a little curious to see what it was. Sam looked just as interested as Dean was, once he noticed what Dean was indicating, and he approached the opening in long, quick strides.

“Hold on,” Dean said, grumbling a little. “Not everyone has freakishly long legs like… you do…”

Dean trailed off when he reached the crack in the wall, and stopped beside Sam, gaping. Beyond the crack was an antechamber, no more than a few yards long on either side. In the middle of the antechamber was a hole, perfectly round, as wide as a man was tall. Words in a language Dean didn’t know were carved along the edge of the hole. Luminescent water poured upward from the hole, like a waterfall in reverse, pooling along the ceiling before it flowed out of the chamber and into the main tunnel. Turning, Dean saw that the water ran across the ceiling until it reached the river, at which point it fell in silently, losing its glow as it went.

“It’s beautiful,” Sam murmured.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “But what is it?”

“That, boys, is called a wellspring.”

Both brothers turned towards the pleasant, mocking voice. Out of the shadows of the tunnel stepped a slim, familiar figure. Meg.

“And you’ve led me right to it,” she said, and gave them a razor-sharp smile. “Congratulations.”

Sam, who still had his sword unsheathed, lunged for her. With a careless flick of her fingers she sent him flying. He hit the wall with a sickening _crack_ and then slid to the ground, unconscious.

Yelling Sam’s name, Dean reached for his sword. Meg didn’t give him a chance to pull it out, though, and with a simple, sweeping gesture she had him sliding out of the antechamber and into the main tunnel. He gasped, breath punched out of him from the burst of magic. When he tried to get back to his feet, though, he found himself pinned by an unseen force, and it felt like a foot being painfully dug into his chest.

“Good try,” Meg said, walking towards Dean with the casual air of a predator that had its prey in its grip, “but it’ll take more than a little brute force to get a hit on me.”

She raised her hand, but before she could do anything, the river behind Dean burst into life. With a roar that shook the walls of the tunnel and rattled Dean’s bones, Castiel lunged at Meg, mouth open in a snarl, fangs gleaming. His entire being seemed to crackle with rage.

Meg watched him come, smiling a little, and at the last moment she clenched her upraised hand into a fist. Castiel reeled backwards, snarling in pain, and as he shifted back Dean could see a familiar, blood-red sigil flaring into life on Castiel’s chest.

Meg hummed, amused. “Oh, pet,” she said. “You tried to wipe that mark off, didn’t you? But you can’t escape me that easily. I’m under your skin, and that’s where I plan on staying.

“Now.” She twisted her fist, and Castiel keened, seeming to fold into himself in an attempt to escape the pain. Meg’s smile widened into something that was downright terrifying. “Down, boy.”

Lifting her fist above her head, Meg brought it down in a short chopping motion. Castiel’s body followed the movement, slamming into the ground with enough force to send up small shards of rock into the air. He groaned, knocked senseless by the impact, and his eyes fluttered. Light flared into existence around his frame, engulfing him completely. It shrank after a few moments, and when it faded away, Castiel was left in his human form, naked and shaking.

“Cas,” Dean ground out, and struggled harder against the magic holding him down. Meg stepped forward until she was looming over Dean, watching him squirm with a soft smile on her face.

“Good job, leading me here,” she said. “When the Great Desert has fallen, it’ll be all thanks to you. But for now, you need to be quiet.”

Meg pulled back one booted foot and brought it down against the side of Dean’s head in a brutal, efficient kick. Stars burst to life behind Dean’s eyes, swiftly followed by darkness. Before he faded out completely, he thought he heard Castiel cry out his name.

=

Consciousness came back slowly, and when Dean blinked his eyes open, he immediately squeezed them shut again with a quiet groan. His head was throbbing, and the light felt too bright in his current state. After a moment, he cracked his eyes open again, squinting against the light, and looked around.

He was seated against one of the walls in the wellspring’s antechamber, arms and legs bound by an unseen magic. Sam sat across from him, still unconscious, head lolling against one of his shoulders. Castiel was right next to Dean, breathing in harsh, quick bursts, Meg’s sigil like a small fire carved into his chest.

Meg was standing in front of the wellspring, watching the water flow upwards, upper lip curled a little in distaste. Dean couldn’t tell if it was a trick of the light, but it appeared that her eyes were completely black, lacking any pupil or iris. When she blinked and looked over at him, though, he saw that her eyes were a normal brown.

“So,” Meg said, looking back at the light. “Did my pet tell you the legend of the wellsprings?”

Dean didn’t answer, choosing to glare at the side of Meg’s head.

“I’m sure he did. He’s got a problem keeping his mouth shut, my little serpent.” Tossing her head, Meg said, “But I bet he left a big ol’ chunk out of the story.”

Meg paused, attention diverted to the wellspring once more. Smirking, she turned away from it with a shake of her head. “I bet,” she said, “that you didn’t know that the Shadow had followers. Did you?”

She turned to Dean, eyebrow raised, face expectant. When he remained silent, she turned to Castiel, who merely glowered at her. Letting out a satisfied hum, Meg went back to studying the wellspring.

“So if you didn’t know _that_ ,” she said, “then you definitely didn’t know that we swore to keep his ideas alive _forever,_ after those _animals_ threw him into that box.”

Dean tried to pull against his restraints. With a short sigh, Meg flicked her fingers in his direction, slamming him against the wall and stealing his breath in one motion.

“I’m talking,” she said, voice pleasant. “Might be a good idea to listen, seeing as a certain pet of mine has left you oh so out of the loop.”

Meg cast a mocking glance in Castiel’s direction before she turned away. Walking along the edge of the wellspring, she said, “And here’s the good part, boys. The cage the Shadow fell into? It has a lock, and locks can always be broken.”

She scuffed a foot against the letters carved into the ground. “‘I am the mouth of all rivers, the spring that feeds all lakes’.” She hummed. “Should’ve added something about being a key, when they wrote this.”

“Meg,” Castiel said, voice barely more than a rasp. “Don’t do this. The consequences alone—”

“Oh, I know what’s coming,” Meg said, and smiled coldly at Castiel. “I’m counting on it, actually.”

Resuming her pacing, Meg said, “Our master found out something that _no one_ knew, by the way, so I don’t expect you to know this next part. Each magical element has an opposite side to it. Like with me, it’s water versus blood. Healing versus controlling.

“The wellsprings favor the ‘purer’ side of things.” Meg sneered at the object in question as she spoke. “My side has been using nothing but scraps for centuries. It makes us weaker than we’re meant to be. But I know that our magic can be stronger than any of the ‘pure’ shit ever was. It just needs a chance.”

She smiled over at Dean. “You,” she said, “are going to help me reverse this wellspring, so that it favors my magic.”

“Never,” Dean spat out, horror and anger at her plans sparking to life in his chest. “We’ll stop you, I promise you that.”

Meg laughed. “I’m already halfway there. The wells are tainted, the people have tossed out their guardian.” Castiel growled lowly at that, which Meg ignored. “There’s only one thing between me and my goal.”

“And what would that be?” Dean asked.

Meg scoffed, a harsh, mirthless sound. “Like I’d ever tell _you_.”

“I’ll kill you before you finish,” Dean said, pulling again at the magic that bound him. His face was dark with promise. Meg only smirked as he struggled, and that fueled his rage even more.

“Dean,” Cas gasped out. “No, you shouldn’t—”

Meg glared at him, and the sigil on his chest burned even brighter, making him grunt in pain. Satisfied, she turned back to Dean.

“Kill me?” she asked. Crossing her arms, she assumed a casual stance, still smiling at Dean. “You know what? I’d like to see you try.”

Just like that, the magic trapping Dean lifted. He scrambled to his feet immediately, hands going to his sword without thought. He had it unsheathed in an instant and, ignoring Castiel’s weak attempts at a warning, lunged for Meg.

He swung, quick and vicious, but Meg was quicker. She dodged with a small laugh, dancing away, a step ahead of Dean’s attacks. Each attack that didn’t connect stoked the fire in Dean’s chest, urging him to move faster, harder. Finally, after feinting an attack to Meg’s side, he flicked his blade up, catching her across the cheek. She gasped, staggering a few steps back, hand going to the wound. Surprise graced her features for a moment, swiftly morphing into anger.

“Lucky hit,” she said.

“Oh yeah?” Baring his teeth, Dean flicked his blade in Meg’s direction. “C’mere, let’s see if I can do it again.”

Meg’s glare could have cut through stone. Crouching, she came at Dean fast and low. Before he could fully react, she had him bodily pinned to the ground. She straddled his stomach, small hands like manacles on his wrists, smiling down at him in a mix of triumph and malice.

“Enough playing,” she murmured. “Now be a good boy and sit still while I rip out your—”

The sound of flesh being punctured cut her off, and her face went blank with surprise. She choked, once, and blood sputtered out of her mouth and onto Dean’s face. Looking over her shoulder, Dean saw Sam standing over the two of them, face grim, sword planted firmly in Meg’s abdomen. Dean had completely forgotten him in the struggle, but he was glad that his brother had woken up in time to help.

After a long, suspended moment, Sam pulled his sword out of Meg, allowing Dean to push her off of him and stand. Meg clutched at the wound in her stomach, still choking on blood, staring at nothing as the life oozed out of her.

“Told you,” Dean said to Meg, face stony. Meg didn’t reply. Satisfied, Dean turned away, seeking out Castiel.

Castiel had managed to stand, though he was leaning on the wall for support. The sigil on his chest was no longer glowing, and was now nothing more than scarred flesh. Dean thought he would look relieved that Meg was slain, but instead he looked distraught.

“Cas?” Dean approached him, brow furrowing. “What is it?”

“I tried to warn you,” Castiel said, eyes on Meg’s body. “I tried.”

“What?”

Before Castiel could explain himself, choked, bubbling laughter rose up from behind Dean. Turning, he saw that Meg had pushed herself up onto her elbows, and looked far too pleased for someone who was dying.

Meg let out another short, gurgling laugh, and grinned, bloody and horrible. “Knew you boys had it in you,” she said.

“What are you talking about,” Sam said. “You’re dying.”

Meg laughed again, and blood dripped out of her mouth and stomach with the motion. “Exactly.”

“The final piece,” Castiel said quietly, every syllable laced with exhausted defeat. “The blood from a fatal wound.”

Dean’s stomach clenched. He felt sick with realization of what he and Sam had done. “But it’ll stop here,” he said, trying to find something good to cling onto. “We killed you. There’s no way you can get to the other wellsprings.”

“You think I didn’t plan on this?” Meg said. She slowly pushed herself to her feet, more blood coming out of her as she did. She’d lost far too much blood to still be alive. “This is just a meatsuit I picked up before this whole thing started.”

“What?”

“Meg Masters was a sweet little girl who was moving out to the Great Desert to start an adventure. At least,” Meg said, and smirked, “she was before she met me.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “So you’re actually—”

“Nowhere near the desert.” Meg laughed again, and blinked. Her eyes went jet black, and this time Dean knew it was no trick of the light. “Safe and sound. You lost before you even started, boys. Better get used to it.”

“We’ll find you,” Dean said. “We’ll find you, and fix this.”

“Good luck, honey. You’ll never catch up to us.”

“You hope,” Dean said, glaring. “‘Cause if I find you again, it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

“Promises, promises,” Meg said, leering. “We’ll see. In the meantime, my desert awaits.”

With that, smoke burst out of Meg’s mouth and eyes, making her stagger back to the edge of the wellspring. The smoke twisted away into the depths of the tunnel, impossible to trace. Meg blinked, eyes clear again, and choked on the blood in her mouth. Confusion leached into her expression as her fingers traced the wound in her abdomen. She took another, shaking step backwards, and toppled into the wellspring. She screamed, once, and then disappeared into the light.

“By the grace of the Creator,” Sam said, face pale and horrified. He looked helplessly at Dean. “We—”

The ground shook violently, making the three of them stagger. The bright water pouring out of the wellspring flickered once, twice, and then froze, no longer flowing. After a long, sickening second, it started moving in the opposite direction, pouring into the wellspring instead of out of it. As it moved, its light shifted from a pale blue to a deep, rusty red. The color of old blood. The air began to crackle, the power leaking into the air like oil on Dean’s skin.

A hand clutched at his shoulder, making him turn. Castiel was right behind him, staring at the wellspring with a mix of defeat and rage. “We must go,” he said. “The backlash of the reversal will be—”

A hollow _crack_ , like ice on a river in the dead of winter, echoed through the antechamber. Light pulsed off of the wellspring in oozing bursts. The chamber shook, and cracks began to form along the walls.

“Run,” Castiel said, yelling to be heard over the shrieking sound of rock breaking. “Go now, while you still can!”

And so Dean turned and ran, grabbing Sam’s wrist as he went, Castiel right behind him. The entire tunnel was coming down, large chunks of the ceiling crashing into the river with an explosion of water, revealing the pale blue sky above. The ceiling behind the three of them began to give out, and it soon became a race to reach the stairs.

“We’re not going to make it,” Sam called out when they were about halfway between the wellspring and the stairs.

“We have to,” Dean said. “We ain’t got a choice!”

But even as he said it, the cracks in the ceiling caught up to them. Pieces of rock began to fall all around them, making them stagger. But Dean kept running, holding onto hope as long as he could. Not even a handful of moments later, a boulder the size of a house fell in front of the entryway to the stairs, blocking them. Dean skidded to a halt, disbelieving. Looking up, he saw that the ceiling directly above them was giving out.

“Sam,” he called, reaching for his brother. His other hand involuntarily went towards Castiel, who grabbed it tightly. Castiel wore an expression of determination.

“Not now,” he said, voice almost lost under the sound of falling stone. “We have too much to do.”

Light engulfed Castiel, shifting and growing. Under his palm, Dean felt skin give way to scales. As darkness and stone descended all around them, the last thing Dean saw was a long, massive form wrapping protectively around him and Sam, staying between them and certain death.

=

He drifted in and out of consciousness, and only remembered snatches of what happened next. There was darkness, close and cold. And then there was light, and the sky, big and blue and brilliant. He remembered someone holding onto him, telling him that help was on the way. And then, for a while, there was nothing.

The next time Dean resurfaced, he did so entirely. He groaned. Every part of him hurt. With a grunt of effort, he tried to push himself up to his elbows. Before he could fully sit up, though, a gentle hand pressed against his shoulder and pushed him back down.

“Easy, boy,” a voice said. “Not a lot of folk can survive a cave-in without some sort of consequence.”

Dean knew that voice. Cracking his eyes open, he tried to focus on the figure standing over him. “Missouri?”

“Yup.” The corners of her mouth ticked upward in the slightest of smiles, and she patted Dean’s shoulder. “Good to see ya again, even if it ain’t the best of situations.”

Turning his head, Dean took in his surroundings. There was a cot on the other side of the room, the sheets on it rumpled, but it was empty. Bookshelves lined every wall in a disheveled way that was familiar to Dean. Squinting in confusion, he looked back at Missouri.

“Ain’t your house,” he said, voice a tired rasp.

“Nope.” Missouri tilted her head, looking at the bookshelves with a smile that had turned a little sour. “We’re at Rufus’s. It ain’t exactly safe for me and my family to move back into our house.”

“Lemme guess,” Dean said, and flopped his head back against his pillow. “You guys got labeled as heretics.”

“You got it.” Sighing through her nose, Missouri crossed her arms over her chest and said, “Y’know, we’d still be in hidin’, if the guardian himself hadn’t asked for help.”

“Cas?” And just like that, everything that had happened came rushing back to Dean. Meg. The cave-in. Castiel saying they had too much to do. Alarmed, Dean tried to sit up again. “Is he all right? And Sammy, is he—?”

“Whoa, whoa,” Missouri said, raising her hands in a gesture of placation. However, she didn’t move to push Dean back down. “They’re both in one piece. Sam’s out in the other room, catchin’ Rufus and Eloise up on everythin’ you boys’ve been up to.”

Some of the tension in Dean’s shoulders disappeared, and he let out a quiet breath of relief. “And Cas?”

The knowing look Missouri leveled at Dean made him flush and squirm a little. One side of her mouth ticked up, and she looked away and said, “Reckon he’s outside. He’s been spendin’ a lot of time with himself ever since y’all got here.”

That sparked a little worry in Dean’s chest. After a moment of thought, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand. Missouri had to help him fully stand, but once he was vertical, he was fine on his own. Nodding his thanks, Dean slowly walked out into the main room. Sure enough, Sam was there, talking in a low voice to Rufus and Eloise. All three of them looked up when Dean walked in. Sam’s face lit up, but he didn’t say anything. Grinning, Dean clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder as he walked past on his way to the front door.

It was almost noon in Salvation, the streets empty and quiet. The only shade to be found was under the roof of Rufus’s front porch. There, sitting cross-legged in the far corner of the porch, was Castiel. He was staring out at the street, eyes distant, face drawn. He didn’t react when Dean moved to stand beside him.

“Hey,” Dean said gently, making Castiel start and look up. Dean smiled a little when their eyes met, and then gestured at the floor next to Castiel. “This seat taken?”

“Dean,” Castiel said softly, still staring. After a moment he shook his head and patted the floorboards beside him. “Come, sit. You can’t have much strength, if you’ve just woken up.”

Dean took the invitation with a murmur of thanks, flopping down next to Castiel, legs stretched out in front of him. They sat in silence for a stretch of time, watching the lifeless street before them. A slight breeze kicked up, tossing dust into the air.

“So,” Dean said, and Castiel tilted his head to show that he was listening. “I’m guessing you’re the one who saved us back there.”

Castiel ducked his head in a small nod. “Of course. I thought I should return the favor, seeing as you saved me first.”

Dean huffed out a small laugh. “It wasn’t a favor that should’ve needed returning.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”

“No.” Slanting a smile at Castiel, he said, “Still, thank you. For saving our hides.”

Castiel returned Dean’s smile with quiet ease. “Think nothing of it.”

Silence lulled between them for a moment. Then, taking a deep breath, Dean said, “What now?”

Sighing, Castiel pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. “I don’t know,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I suppose I’ll stay here. My - _the_ \- desert is in its death throes. I might as well see it to the end.”

“Well,” Dean said, leaning back a little but making sure to keep an eye on the side of Castiel’s face. “That’s one idea.”

Castiel looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “You have another?”

“Yeah.” Trying for nonchalance, he looked down at his hands and said, “Reckon you could come with Sam and me.”

Castiel lifted his head to regard Dean head on, eyes wide. “What?”

“There’s three more wellsprings, right? Figured we could try to stop Meg and her folk from finding them.” Dean cleared his throat, and felt his ears burn as he added, “And, y’know. I might appreciate your company.”

Castiel didn’t say anything for a long time, long enough that Dean was beginning to shift uneasily. He was about to find some way to take back his offer when fingers lightly brushed over the back of one of his hands, catching his attention. Looking over, Dean saw that Castiel was watching him with a determined expression.

“I’ll join you,” he said. His face briefly tightened with grief. “I may have failed at my duties here, but that doesn’t mean I wish the same fate on my brethren.”

Castiel swallowed tightly and looked away. Impulsively, Dean reached out and grabbed Castiel’s nearer hand, threading their fingers together. Castiel looked over, surprised, and then down at their entwined hands. 

“We’ll stop her,” Dean said, voice soft. “And then we’ll fix your desert. All right?”

Castiel slowly nodded, still looking down at their hands. Dean squeezed his hand, just once, and then let go. “Right,” he said, and stood. “I’ll tell Sammy we’re riding out as soon as possible. We’ll get you some gear before that, and—”

“Dean.”

The quiet sound of his name made Dean look around. Castiel had stood up as well, and was watching Dean with a ghost of a smile on his face. “Thank you,” he said.

Dean returned Castiel’s smile with a crooked grin. “‘Course,” he said. “You expect me to let you wallow out here when there’s world-saving to do?”

Castiel’s smile widened. “No,” he said, “I suppose not.”

“I didn’t think so.” Striding back inside, Dean said, “Get yourself ready, Cas, ‘cause there’s a whole world out there to explore.”

=

Four days later, and the three of them were standing at the pass that led out of the Great Desert. Sunlight was slanting out of the west, red and dimming with the dying day. They’d paused, in wordless agreement, to watch the sun set before they moved on.

Dean kept his eyes on Castiel. The guardian had been quiet for the entire ride to the pass, only speaking when directly spoken to. He may have agreed to come with Sam and Dean to save the other wellsprings, but he was still leaving the only home he’d ever known. Dean could sympathize with that, which was why if Castiel wanted this last glimpse of his desert, he would let him have it.

Soon enough, the sun winked out of existence, slipping under the horizon. Beside him, Dean heard Castiel let out a quiet, shuddering sigh. Reaching out, Dean clasped his shoulder and squeezed it.

“You ready?” Dean asked.

“Yes,” Castiel said, after a moment’s pause. “Yes. Let’s go.”

And so, the three of them turned their backs to the Great Desert and rode their way east, towards the plains and what lay beyond them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's that! If you can't tell, there will be sequels to this in the upcoming months. First, though, I gotta plan out the next part, and work on some other things that I pushed to the backburner in order to get this beast done.
> 
> Many thanks to all of the people who've given this kudos and comments! Y'all are what kept me going, especially when I hit a block.
> 
> And many MANY thanks to Andrea, my beta. By all that breathes, I couldn't have done it without you, darling.


End file.
